


Rainbow’s Freedom (Sanctuary Arc)

by BradyGirl_12



Series: Rainbow's Freedom [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU - Comicverse, Green Arrow, Superman (Comics), Superman/Batman (Comics), Wonder Woman (Comics), World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Drama, Dreams, First Time, M/M, Master/Slave, Nightmares, Series, Sexual Slavery, Slave Trade, Slavery, Violence, Whipping, World's Finest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 29,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BradyGirl_12/pseuds/BradyGirl_12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the 23rd century, Earth is a technologically-advanced society that practices the ancient institution of slavery.  The wealthy freeman Bruce Wayne acquires a highly-prized bedslave whom he learns to cherish...but can he ever truly love a slave?  And will it all be moot as a weak abolitionist movement slowly gathers strength while the Galactic Empire remains in a perpetual state of Cold War?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> Original LJ Dates Of Completion: January 30-March 12, 2007  
> Original LJ Dates Of Posting: March 15-May 11, 2007  
> Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, DC does, more’s the pity.  
> Original LJ Word Count: 30,423  
> Feedback welcome and appreciated.  
> There are a total of nine arcs in this series.  
> The _magnificent_ story cover is by the wonderfully-talented [Ctbn60](http://ctbn60.livejournal.com). Thanks so much, luv! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce receives an invitation to a private showing of highly specialized goods.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/bradygirl_12/pic/0001ye55)

_In Autumn’s gold,  
He met his soul.  
Power chained,  
Love remained,  
For the brave  
And the bold._

  


**The Freedom Chronicles  
2363 C.E.**

Bruce Wayne strode through the open-air market, enjoying the crispness of a glorious autumn day. He squinted up at the sky, its deep, startling blue as lovely as any artist’s rendering.

He passed stalls that showcased crafts, artwork, and colorful clothing. His mouth watered at the smell of apples and cinnamon and freshly-baked bread. His long, black coat flapped in the wind, his dark hair ruffled. He was wearing complete black, his outfit the epitome of understated elegance. 

He passed into the next section of stalls. Vendors recognized the look of Old Money and hawked their wares, trying to entice him to look, ultimately to buy. His gaze flicked over a beautiful young woman, her dark eyes limned with kohl, her long, black hair spilling over her naked breasts. Chains rattled as she was turned around to display other assets.

The next stall held a well-muscled man, his broad face bearded. Upon closer inspection, Bruce noted the plethora of scars criss-crossing the massive chest and thighs. The vendor shouted out a low price. A laborer, then, with a bad disciplinary history.

Bruce continued passing the stalls, his thoughts turning to dinner. Alfred had promised a favorite of his: beef stroganoff and the last of the fresh garden vegetables, and, knowing Alfred, there would be an exquisite creation for dessert.

His hand slid into his coat pocket. The embossed invitation had to be shown at the door of the private chambers on the upper floor of Braddock Hall, named after one of the wealthiest men in Gotham history. He was also one of its founders, the family name plastered on as nearly as many buildings as the House of Wayne.

At the end of the market he ascended the marble steps leading into the hall. The heavy wooden doors were unlocked on this busiest of days, and Bruce entered the lobby, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darker interior.

His footsteps echoed on the polished parquet floor as the doors closed, shutting out the market’s din. Marble columns held up a vaulted frescoed ceiling, plush chairs and tables scattered discreetly around the lobby. The richness of the furnishings and the understated quiet whispered of power and money, elements in which Bruce felt completely at home.

At the bank of elevators he pulled out the invitation. Choosing the elevator at the end of the row, he inserted the card into a slot, the doors opening as if he was Ali Baba entering the den of the Forty Thieves.

His mouth quirked as he stepped inside, the doors closing with a soft whoosh! Slave dealers were not the most reputable of businessmen, but the best strove hard to maintain a spotless reputation. The one who had issued the invitation to him possessed a sterling reputation amongst men some regarded as little better than thieves. 

The elevator thrummed quietly, then stopped at the third and top floor. The doors opened and Bruce walked around the corner and down the hall.

A uniformed guard stood at the door located at the end. He nodded at Bruce, who produced his invitation. Despite the honorific title of Prince of Gotham, he would not be allowed in without the gold-embossed card. The guard checked it, then handed it back as he opened the carved wooden door. 

“Welcome, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce stepped into tasteful opulence, handing his coat to a servant who materialized at his elbow. The furnishings were dark cherrywood, expensive paintings set on pale-green walls, Greek statuary on polished endtables. His footsteps were muffled by the thick, dark-blue carpet. 

At the end of a short hall, Bruce knocked on the door. It opened to reveal a stocky, balding man with an unctuous smile.

“Mr. Wayne! Please come in!”

This room was nearly cavernous, tall windows letting in light to accentuate comfortable couches and tables set in a semi-circle several feet away from a stage at one end. A dark-blue curtain draped the back of the stage. Five men were already seated, enjoying wine from ruby-red decanters and fresh fruit from golden bowls. 

“Come this way, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce followed the man into a small anteroom. Silas Bracken closed the door behind them.

“Please have a seat.”

Bruce settled himself into a comfortable chair, curiosity burning in his eyes. “Why was I invited, Mr. Bracken? I’m not in the habit of buying slaves. My associate Lucius Fox is in charge of acquiring such goods.”  
“Ah, but this is a highly exotic piece of merchandise, sir.”

Bruce affected a bored look. ‘Exotic’ usually meant ‘sex slave’. He didn’t fancy bedslaves. His partners were always willing freemen and freewomen. 

“In what way?”

Bracken leaned forward, nervous sweat nearly masked by heavy cologne. Bruce restrained himself from leaning back.

“One of the finest Human bedslaves I ever seen.”

“I don’t think I’m…”

“I feel I have to be honest with you, sir.”

“Please do.” Bruce blinked. The man was good. He had headed off an objection with lightning speed. 

Bracken took a deep breath. “In the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that this slave has Wertham’s Disease.”

Bruce frowned. “Isn’t that like malaria, as in recurring?”

Bracken nodded. “He was off-world and contracted it. As you know, Wertham’s Disease is permanent. There is a drug, quinium, that must be injected weekly. But the disease itself is not contagious and your slave could live a long and healthy life. In his case, a slaver offered him to me who also said he had no memory due to a head injury.”

Bruce’s frown increased. “Sounds like damaged goods, Mr. Bracken.”

“You could say that, but his positives outweigh his negatives.” Bracken cocked his head. “Once you see him, I think you will change your mind.” He waved a pudgy hand. “Mr. Wayne, I have told all your fellow bidders this in the interest of doing honest business. They have all elected to stay. I request that you stay as well. Of course you do not have to bid.”

Bruce considered. He never bought slaves at auction, leaving that to Lucius as he’d informed Bracken. Besides, his parents had implemented a tradition of hiring freemen as landscapers, chauffeurs, and other household help on the estate. The only slave Bruce had daily contact with was Alfred, who had been obtained by Thomas and Martha Wayne in the belief that a butler knew all the family secrets and a slave would be more loyal than a freeman, or at least keep his mouth shut. That had proven true as Alfred was loyal to the utmost.

Yet this auction intrigued him despite himself. He would bid to keep his credibility but he had no need of a bedslave. 

As he rose he said, “I’ll stay, Mr. Bracken.”

Bracken beamed and scurried to open the door. 

At the very least, Bruce thought, it should be an interesting auction.


	2. The Auction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce never really intended to make a purchase at the auction.

_When the Starchild  
Fell to Earth,  
My heart  
Glittered.  
My eyes  
Would never  
Again  
See another._

  


**Marion Zimmer Grayson  
"Tales of the Starchild"   
2106 C.E.**

Bracken escorted Bruce to the remaining seat in the outer room, snapping his fingers. A manacled servant brought wine and fruit.

Bruce smiled and nodded at the four other prospective buyers: Tay Devlin of Coast City, Brady O’Reilly of Boston, and two he knew well indeed: Oliver Queen of Star City and Lex Luthor of Metropolis. All were billionaires and all were accustomed to private showings of specialty goods. 

Lex raised his glass. “So, Bruce, have you altered your pattern?”

Bruce sipped his wine. Excellent vintage. “What pattern is that, Lex?”

“Buying slaves.” Lex’s light-blue eyes were watchful. Nothing much escaped him.

“My family has owned slaves for generations.”

“True.” Lex picked up a pear from the bowl on his table, taking a bite. “But you leave the slave-buying to others.”

Bruce shook out a linen napkin and placed it on his knee. “I received an invitation, so I came.” He selected a dark-red apple. “It could be interesting.”

Ollie laughed. “You’re right about that, Bruce. Silas Bracken always puts on a good show.” He winked at Bruce, who smiled back. Old school ties and similar economic backgrounds had thrown them together, but Bruce considered Ollie and Lex friends. Both were competitive businessmen, each a shark in his own way, as they considered Bruce. He delighted in his competition with them in various business and cultural arenas.

The lights were dimmed and all five men directed their attention to the stage. Silas Bracken mounted the steps, clasping his pudgy hands in front of him. He beamed with false good cheer as he said, “Welcome, gentlemen, to this private showing of, shall we say, exotic delights?” Leers appeared on several faces. “The merchandise is rare and skillful, I assure you. Without further ado, behold the Angel Of Your Dreams!”

The lights dimmed and the dark-blue curtains at the back of the stage parted, the handler emerging with a glittering length of chain in his hand. He tugged on it, and the man held captive at the end of it emerged into the soft light, his braceleted wrists chained together in front of his waist.

Bruce felt a shock course through him with the weight of a sledgehammer, a tingle running along his nerve endings. His fingers tightened on the arm of the chair.

_No, not an Angel. A Starchild._

He gazed upon a creature from the stars. He didn’t care that the kid was from Kansas or any other pedestrian Earth location. Perfect skin glowed from the soft pearl lighting, broad shoulders and chest tapering to a slim waist, a bright blue cloth barely covering jewels of great price. Strong legs tottered slightly as the handler tugged on the chain. The bracelets and collar sparkled with rainbow prisms, an odd metal Bruce had never seen before.

The face.

Midnight-blue hair framed the face, a single curl tumbling over the forehead. The face was exquisite, from the strong cheekbones and inviting mouth to the eyes.

The eyes.

Bruce understood now what people meant when they said they were drowning in someone’s eyes. The color matched the autumn sky, framed by long, sooty lashes. 

Bruce felt a desire that surged through him with the force of a tidal wave, intertwined with…protectiveness?

No matter. He had to have this ethereal creature.

“10,000,” Ray Devlin opened.

“15,000,” Brady O’Reilly countered.

“20,000,” Tay said.

Bruce studied the face, concentrating on the eyes. Glazed. _Probably the quinium, though some slavers like to drug their merchandise before auction._ He carefully catalogued what he could see: confusion, sorrow…fear?

_“In his case, a slaver offered him to me who also said he had no memory due to a head injury.”_

Little wonder that the slave was fearful. Everything he had known was gone.

“Perfection, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer who held the glittering chain. “Look at his chest! Smooth, broad and strong, perfect for caressing.” The well-manicured hand lightly moved over the creamy skin, then rested on a broad shoulder. As the auctioneer’s hand moved, Bruce frowned.

“50,000.”

Lex was bidding now. Bruce saw the lust and interest in his pale eyes. 

“Strong thighs worthy of a Prize!” The hand rubbed languorously over sinew and bone, then rested on the flat stomach. Bruce thought that he could detect a slight trembling by the slave, but it could be a trick of the light.

“60,000,” Bruce said. Bracken smirked from his place beside the semicircle of chairs. 

Lex looked at Bruce, amused surprise on his face. “70,000.”

“75,000.”

“80,000.”

“100,000!”

All eyes were on Bruce now. He mentally kicked himself for tipping his hand, but he was afraid to lose the beauty to Lex. He _had_ to win. He _had_ to!

Lex’s eyes glittered in amusement. “200,000.”

“Excellent, gentlemen. And, perhaps to give you a preview of what you can expect…”

The auctioneer grabbed the cloth and yanked it off.

“And not only that, but a virgin, gentlemen,” said Bracken.

Bruce’s heart pounded, his eyes slipping up from the well-endowed manhood to the captive’s face.

Shame bloomed on the perfect face. The slave bent his head, his face becoming shadowed.

Anger flared in Bruce. “250,000.”

Lex’s smile was predatory. “300,000.”

Suddenly Ollie spoke up. “325,000.” Bruce glared at him but Ollie winked. Bruce kept his glare, understanding Ollie’s offer of help but not acknowledging it. Lex was too perceptive.

“350,000.” Lex coolly took another bite of his pear.

Bruce resisted the urge to grit his teeth. Would Lex drive the price up to a ridiculous amount?

_It doesn’t matter. Whatever it takes, that Starchild is **mine.**_

The name from the old tales fit.

Bruce let the arrogance of Old Money wash over him. He was a Wayne, the heir to untold billions. He was in the company of his peers, but his Social Register lineage traced back to the Mayflower. His family had been the most prominent family in Gotham for generations.

He was Bruce Wayne.

“400,000,” said Ollie.

“450,000,” Lex countered.

Bruce always got what he wanted.

“1,000,000.”

Even Ollie and Lex were stunned. A million dollars?!

The auctioneer was speechless. He had been in the process of turning his charge around and now his hand cupped a shapely buttock, lingering perhaps a fraction too long to be entirely professional.

Lex’s lips curved into a sardonic smile. He raised his glass. “Congratulations, Bruce. You’ve bought yourself a magnificent piece of ass.”

Triumph rushed through Bruce. “Auctioneer, cover my slave.” _And get your hand off his ass!_

The man quickly obeyed, draping the cloth back over the newly-purchased slave.

Silas Bracken broke out of his stunned state and quickly said, “Please come with me, Mr. Wayne, and we’ll process the paperwork.”

Bruce rose from the chair and followed the slave dealer to the anteroom. Bracken closed the door behind them.

“I have the bill of sale here.” Bracken held out the paper. “You’ll have to fill in the name. He couldn’t remember his and the slaver who held him decided just to put the registration number on the papers.”

Bruce took the paper and noted that there were a lot of empty spaces. The birthplace of the slave was left blank due to his amnesia, and his age as well. Bruce guessed him to be around the same age as himself, mid-twenties. There was no bloodline listed, either, due to the memory loss. 

_Lucius will think I’m nuts for buying a slave for this price and having no lineage at all._

One line filled in was Race: Human. Not so exotic as some Orion, perhaps, but he suited Bruce’s purposes. He also noted the weight and height, also approximately his own. _A good match._

Bracken opened a large wooden box and produced a smaller one. “Here is a supply of the medicine he needs. There is an information card in there with a number to call when you start running low. He needs weekly injections.”

Bruce took the box of drugs, eying the red liquid in each bottle. A hypodermic spray and disinfectant was included.

Bruce set aside the box and took out his checkbook, barely cognizant of all the zeros, and handed it to the dealer.

“Have your man properly clothe my slave. I don’t wish to parade him nearly naked in front of the whole city. Also, I want to use a private entrance. No Veil, but I don’t want anyone besides my chauffeur to see his face unobscured.”

“Very good.” Bracken reached into the large box again. “One last thing.” He took out a very small box, holding it carefully with two hands by rings attached to the sides. “If the manacles and collar are accidentally removed, you can use what is in this box.” At Bruce’s puzzled look, Bracken explained, “I know such things are never removed, but things happen. The metal in the bracelets and collar help with your slave’s condition. They’re coated with an alien substance that helps with his illness, a new discovery. Not on the general market yet.” He handed it over to Bruce. “I wouldn’t recommend opening it unless such a thing happened. The mineral from which the coating comes is best kept under lock and key unless in dire emergency.”

Bruce was surprised at the weight of the box. He hefted it and realized that it was lead.

Bracken handed him an old-fashioned key for the lead box. “Congratulations, Mr. Wayne. You are now the proud owner of a prize whore.” Bracken left the room.

Bruce stared down at the array of items the dealer had given him. Not only had he broken the habit of a lifetime by buying a bedslave, he had spent a small fortune doing it, and now needed drugs and alien minerals to keep his ill slave healthy. 

_My god, what have I done?_


	3. Welcome To Wayne Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce brings his Prize home.

_When the Starchild  
Fell to Earth,  
He said,  
Beloved,  
Take me  
To bed._

  


**Marion Zimmer Grayson  
"Tales of the Starchild"   
2106 C.E.**

“Bruce!”

Bruce turned to see Ollie hurry over to him in the Braddock Hall lobby. “Hi, Ollie.”

The blond clapped him on the shoulder. “Glad you got him.”

“Thanks for helping me.”

“No problem. Lex has never mistreated a slave as far as I know, but you just seemed the better fit.” Ollie laughed at Bruce’s blush. His green eyes sparkled. Ollie looked better with his beard shaved off. He had changed his look a few months ago. “Though of course my bidding kinda drove the price up a little, but I was figuring that if I got him, I could sell him to you.” He smiled. “Good luck with him. He’s sure a beauty. Will we be getting a close-up look at him or will he be taking the Veil?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well, whatever you decide, enjoy him.”

“Thanks again, Ollie.” 

As Ollie left, Bruce headed for the private anteroom in which his new purchase would be delivered. 

Once there, Bruce waited, restraining himself from shifting foot-to-foot. He felt the weight of the lead box in the bag on his arm and set it down. He had the whole kit and kaboodle in the bag, too. He wondered if Alfred would give him the raised eyebrow when he saw all this.

The door opened and the auctioneer led his slave in. Bruce drew in a sharp breath. Up close, his new purchase was even more beautiful, dressed in light-blue pants and a white silk shirt, sandals on his feet . 

“Here you go, sir,” said the auctioneer, handing over the length of chain attached to the bracelets. He also handed Bruce a red velvet pouch containing chains for the collar and keys for it and the manacles. In the bag it went.

“Thank you,” Bruce said, his eyes never leaving the slave’s face. The man’s eyes were still glazed but he waited apprehensively for an order. A wayward curl tumbled down over his forehead. 

The metal of the chain length was cold in Bruce’s hand. “This way.” Bruce tugged on the chains. The bracelets were still linked by a small loop, the longer chain sparkling as Bruce began to walk, the other man following without protest.

Bruce had requested that his chauffeur bring around the limousine to a back entrance. Brendan was holding the door of the car open. His brown eyes widened at the sight of the slave, but he remained silent.

“Home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once inside the limousine, Master and slave settled on the leather seats. The slave kept his eyes cast downward, as was proper.

Bruce maintained the silence. He was uncertain of how to proceed. How did one make small talk with a man one had just purchased? _Hello there, my good man, you’re going to grace my bed and I own you lock, stock and barrel._

He sighed. How was he going to fit this slave into his life? He couldn’t keep him in bed twenty-four hours a day, though that was a thought, preferably in restraints. He quickly pushed that image out of his mind if he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of his new slave. He didn’t know his bondsman’s skills outside the bedroom yet, so it limited any options he might have at this point. Would he loan him out for work of some kind, as many Masters did? But that wasn’t usually done with bedslaves, except for the obvious ‘work’. 

One look at his new slave and he knew there would be no loans.

Grateful for the tinted windows, Bruce laid his head back and closed his eyes, the chain metal in his hand _very_ cold indeed.

& & & & & &

Wayne Manor rose tall and proud amongst the surrounding trees, Bruce feeling the pride he always did upon seeing his home. As the limousine stopped in front of the columned veranda, Bruce opened the door and tugged on the chain. His slave climbed out awkwardly.

Bruce realized they were indeed the same height as he had read on the ownership papers. They were roughly the same build, as well. _A good fit, indeed_. He felt drawn to very kissable lips.

The large oak front door was opened. “Sir?”

“Alfred.” Bruce looked as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

The dignified butler waited for an explanation. Bruce took a deep breath and marched forward, slave in tow.

“I made a purchase.”

An eyebrow lifted. “Yes, sir.”

Almost defiant, Bruce said, “Will you settle my…him…into my room, please?”

Alfred’s expression showed no surprise. “Yes, Master Bruce.” He took the chain and said, “This way…what is his name, sir?”

“I don’t know yet.” It was within Bruce’s right as the new Master to rename his slave if he wished. In this case, he was going to give a nameless man a name. 

Alfred gently led his new charge into the house.

The slave blinked, dazzled by the opulence of the Grand Foyer: polished parquet floor, gleaming balustrade, expensive statuary and fresh flowers on cherrywood tables. A massive crystal chandelier dominated the foyer, prisms of light dancing across the floor.

Alfred led the slave up the stairs as Bruce went into the study. Behind a painting of water lilies was his safe. He stored the bill of sale and ownership papers in an envelope in which he kept Alfred’s documents. He frowned at the drug box. He would have to keep it cold as the drug would lose its potency without long-term refrigeration. 

That left the lead box.

For a moment he thought about opening it, but Bracken had been pretty certain that it wasn’t something he should be doing unless it was an emergency. There might be low-level radiation involved, and Bruce decided he would keep it locked for now. But where to put it?

An idea flashed through his head. He picked up the box.

& & & & & &

Bruce entered the bedroom. Alfred was turning down black silk sheets.

“Alfred, where’s…where is he?”

“Bathroom, sir.” Alfred straightened up. “Master Bruce, the young man seems quite tired.”

“Ah, yes.” Bruce held out the wooden box. “He requires injections once a week. Wertham’s Disease.”

“When’s his next injection?”

“In seven days. He’s probably just tired from the auction.” _I can imagine the stress level must be pretty high._ “Alfred, have our…new addition…take a nap. If he wants lunch, please serve him.”

Alfred nodded.

Bruce went downstairs, grabbing an apple from the blue-and-white ceramic bowl on the hall table. He settled in the study, conducting business in an effort to try and get some normalcy back in the day.

_Maybe I’m trying to make back the million bucks I spent._

Bruce was still a little shell-shocked over dropping that amount, but he thought of what waited in his bed and decided to chalk it up to luxury goods.

& & & & & &

A knock on the door brought Bruce’s head up. “Come in.”

Alfred entered the study. “Sir, will you be taking dinner in here before going out?”

Bruce looked out the French doors, startled at the darkness. “Thank you, Alfred. I’ll have some soup, please. I guess the beef stroganoff will have to wait.”

“Yes, sir.” Alfred turned to leave.

“And, Alfred?”

The butler turned back. “Yes, sir?”

“I won’t be going out tonight.”

Surprise flickered over the older man’s face. “Yes, sir.”

Alfred returned with tomato soup laden with vegetables. Bruce spent another hour on business, finishing his soup. Tiredly he rubbed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. Yawning, he scanned the newspaper as his last task, his eyes settling on an article on Page 6. He could have used the Internet but he liked the idea of a real newspaper, rare as that was in this day and age.

_Martha Kent, head of the Kansas chapter of the National Abolitionist Society, is the daughter of well-known ACLU lawyer Hiram Clark. She will be the keynote speaker at the Society’s planned conference in Gotham City in November._

The picture accompanying the article showed a middle-aged woman with reddish hair wearing wire-rimmed glasses, a cheerful smile on her face.

Several minutes later Bruce left the study, bringing the bowl and spoon to the kitchen and washing and drying both, then storing them away in the their proper places in the cabinets. _Alfred will kill me if I don’t put them in the right places, he thought with a smile._

He headed upstairs, softly opening the door to his bedroom.

Moonlight streamed in through the windows, silvery ribbons of light illuminating the bed.

Bruce stopped in shock as he saw his new slave kneeling by the bed, naked, legs spread and head bowed, his arms crossed behind his back. The soft curl tumbled over the forehead.

Bruce tried to calm his heart. He quietly closed the door and approached his slave.

_He’s been trained. He’s got the position down perfectly._

Bruce grasped the strong chin and lifted his slave’s head.

Ethereal eyes that sparkled with starlight greeted him. Bruce’s hand trembled.

“I am here to serve you, Master.”

The soft voice washed over Bruce. Desire surged through his body, tingling along his nerves. A tenderness suffused him, and he used his free hand to brush away the curl from bright eyes. Less glazed now.

“Rise,” he said softly.

His slave obeyed, Bruce glad their heights were the same. It wouldn’t do for a slave to tower over his Master.

Bruce unhooked the chain attached to the bracelets and dropped it clattering to the floor. His hand caressed the broad chest, noting a pleasant heat radiating from the silvery skin. He leaned in and whispered in his slave’s ear, “To bed.”

His Prize stretched out on the bed, awaiting his Master’s pleasure. Bruce stripped off his clothes, tossing them aside. He climbed onto the bed, straddling light-kissed flesh. He kissed the throat above and below the white-gold collar, continuing down the chest, tongue lapping around a responsive nipple. His slave moaned. Pleased, Bruce lapped at the other nipple, then laved a wet trail down the sternum to the navel, dipping into the indentation. He lifted his head, observing the beautiful face in the throes of passion.

_Beautiful Starchild._

His slave had been off-world, so the name could fit. Bruce buried his face in his slave’s neck, nearly laughing as he smelled sunshine and freshly-mown fields. A Starchild also of the earth.

Bruce slid his tongue down to the slave’s groin, breathing in heady musk. His slave’s cock bobbed temptingly, warm and throbbing as Bruce began to explore the satiny flesh. More moans delighted his ears.

“M…Master.”

“Shh, my slave. Patience.” Bruce caressed soft hair, then leaned over his slave’s face and rubbed the tip of his cock over lush lips. “Prepare me.”

His slave eagerly took him in his mouth, the warm wetness sending a jolt of electricity through Bruce. He groaned as a very talented mouth sucked him gently, Bruce thrusting carefully despite his lust. He came close to the edge and pulled back, slipping out of his companion’s mouth.

Sweat gleamed over his slave’s body, the lock of hair curling over his forehead again. Bruce leaned down and whispered, “Turn over.”

His slave obeyed, presenting a wondrous sight indeed. Bruce began caressing smooth, luscious buttocks, his finger slipping between them gently. His slave’s body trembled. 

_Virgin._

A _frisson_ of excitement stretched Bruce’s face into a grin. He quickly grabbed a jar of cream from the bedside table, coating his fingers and gently re-inserting one to begin preparations in earnest. 

Each stroke brought both men closer to losing it. Moonlight glittered over the bracelets and silvery skin, creating such ethereal beauty that for a wild second, Bruce thought his Starchild would melt away into stardust. 

Shaking, Bruce placed a hand on the small of his slave’s back. His eyes feasted again on the creamy white mounds awaiting him.

“My beautiful Starchild,” Bruce murmured, leaning forward and kissing the nape of his neck. “Be ready.”

His slave clutched at the silk sheets, spreading his legs to allow deeper penetration. Bruce smiled. So the Starchild wanted it, too.

Slowly he began to enter his companion, massaging his slave’s back to keep him as relaxed as possible. One had to be extra careful with a virgin. Tight heat grasped his cock, delicious friction exciting him as he pumped in and out. Dizzy with desire, Bruce throbbed as he felt pressure began to build, his gaze falling on the sight of such beauty submitting to him, his Lord and Master…

Bruce came with a sparkling intensity, energy coursing through every nerve and sinew as his seed bathed his Starchild. As he collapsed on top of his slave’s pliant body, a wave of tenderness swept over him.

“Clark,” he breathed.

The Naming was done.


	4. Golden Sunlight And Fresh Tomatoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark adjusts to life at the Manor.

_Through the woods of gold,  
Where the trees are strong yet old,  
I saw a castle by the sea.  
My weary heart  
Spoke to me:  
Sanctuary._

  


**Janice Greenleaf Whittier  
"Nature’s Gold And Other Poems"   
2007 C.E.**

_Gray mists drifted through his head, tendrils of a sharp headache beginning to slice through him as he struggled._

_“C’mere, whore. Don’t be shy.”_

_“You mess up his virginity and Kras’ll kill you.”_

_Amused snort. “There’s plenty to do with a slut besides puttin’ one up the ass.”_

_He pushed the grasping hand away, gritting his teeth as the pain savaged him._

_“Oh, no, you don’t, whore.”_

_More pain as a huge fist backhanded him, large hands grabbing and dragging…fear swamped him, strangling him as he opened his mouth to scream…_

& & & & & &

The slave jerked awake. Wildly he looked around the room, his heartbeat rapid but beginning to calm. He wasn’t with the slavers anymore. 

Shaking, he looked at the man sleeping peacefully next to him, one arm draped across his chest.

 _I…I serviced my Master last night. _His eyes widened. _And he named me! My name is Clark!___

Excitement rushed through Clark. He had a name, an identity. Not like those things the slavers called him. He blushed in shame at the memory.

He studied the man beside him. A beautiful man, sooty eyelashes curving over pale cheeks. Jet-black hair framed the face, Clark reaching out tentatively to touch its silkiness. He almost snatched his hand back.

_“A slave must never take the initiative, unless in preparation for service. Never, ever be presumptuous.”_

Clark remembered his trainer’s admonition but he couldn’t resist stroking the lovely hair of the man beside him. He froze as his Master shifted, but he remained asleep.

Clark looked around the room. He had been too nervous yesterday to take much notice of it, so he indulged now.

Thick, black drapes hung at the windows but a crack revealed a bright day. Solid mahogany furniture was the décor: dresser, bureau, and the large bed they slept in. 

His eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness, noting a watercolor of a French landscape on the wall by the dresser, and a larger painting above the headboard of an 1890s scene of Knickerbocker Square in Gotham.

Clark blinked. How did he know that? How did he know anything? The old anxiety surfaced. Whenever he tried to remember, that sense of unease was high. 

He mentally shook it off. He could make new memories now. He just wished he could forget his memories of being with the slavers.

He looked at his Master. This man would protect him. Through the lust, Clark had sensed a strong sense of protectiveness. Strangely enough, he felt safe here, or at the very least, a lessening of the constant fear.

Clark closed his eyes with a little sigh of relief.

“Good morning.”

Clark’s eyes flew open. “G…Good morning, Master.”

A small smile crossed Bruce’s face. He reached out and lightly touched the side of Clark’s face, dark-blue eyes sparkling in the gloom. “You may call me ‘Master’ or “Master Bruce’.

“Yes, Master…Bruce.”

Bruce stretched like a cat, graceful and powerful. “Well, we’d better get you acclimated to life here at the Manor. Go and shower. You’ll have to wear your clothes from yesterday. I’ll send for my tailor and we’ll get you fitted for a complete wardrobe.”

Clark slipped out of bed, padding to the bathroom while Bruce enjoyed the view.

& & & & & &

Clark re-emerged fully dressed, Bruce burrowed under the covers. Not a morning person, he thought in amusement. He quietly went over to the window, peeking out between the drapes.

The bedroom door opened, startling him, jumping back guiltily.

“Good morning,” said Alfred. He marched over to the drapes and pulled them open, sunlight streaming in.

“Mrgh, Alfred,” came the protest from under the covers.

“Time to be up and about, sir. You have a meeting at 11 o’clock.”

More muffled complaints.

Alfred whipped the cover off, unabashed at his Master’s nudity. “Breakfast in fifteen minutes, sir.”

Clark looked on in astonishment. The slave who had trained him on the strict rules of the manacled world would have violently disagreed with Alfred’s liberties.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Bruce grumbled as he swung his legs over the bed. “This is just to get me up.”

“Yes, Master,” Clark replied.

Alfred laid out Bruce’s clothes and then stripped the bed. Clark blushed as he saw the stained sheets.

“Sir, I can do that.”

Bruce disappeared yawning into the bathroom.

“Nonsense, young man. You will have duties, but I still care for Master Bruce’s personal needs.”

“I…I meant no offense.” Clark worried. If he overstepped…

Alfred looked over at the younger slave, sympathy in his eyes. “I know you didn’t. It must be difficult to fit into a new place.”

“How…how long have you been here?”

“Since before Master Bruce was born.” Alfred finished making the bed and bent down to pick up the sheets.

“Sir, I can bring them down to the laundry.”

Alfred looked at him speculatively. “All right.” He dumped the sheets into Clark’s arms. “Follow me.”

Clark got some idea of the vastness of the Manor as he trotted down to the basement, helping Alfred start a batch of laundry. Alfred then led Clark up to the kitchen, directing him to sit at the table.

Clark was suddenly ravenous. His mouth watered as he smelled bacon and eggs.

“I hope you like maple-flavored bacon,” Alfred said as he set a plate in front of Clark.

Clark picked up the fork. “I…I don’t know.” Misery shone from his eyes. Would he ever remember _anything?_ He speared a slice of bacon and chewed it. “I…guess I do.”

Alfred smiled, covering his pity. “Excellent. Ah, Master Bruce. Have a seat, sir.”

Clark enjoyed the food, noticing that Bruce also cleaned his plate. The kitchen was a warm, almost cozy place _(split-second flash of another kitchen, warm and smelling of gingerbread),_ painted a soft yellow and blue, and he felt relaxed as Bruce and Alfred discussed the plans for the day.

“Will you be staying in the city after your meeting, sir?”

“No, I’ll be returning home. Please call my tailor and the engraver.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be back by two. They should be here then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bruce pushed back his chair. “I have some time for a quick tour. When I go, Alfred, you can start Clark on some housekeeping duties to help you.”

Alfred lifted an eyebrow, then smiled. “I shall be delighted for Clark’s help, sir.”

Clark followed Bruce out of the kitchen.

“Here on the first floor is the living room (a large room decorated in blues and greens), dining room (the furniture was dark, heavy, and reflected an enormous chandelier), library (a wonderful room filled with books), my study (dark furniture again but filled with personal touches, including a portrait of a man and woman over the fireplace who resembled Bruce), and the ballroom (an enormous room with polished hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and three large, glittering chandeliers).”

“All very impressive,” Clark said quietly as they stood in the hallway looking into the library again. “What a beautiful old grandfather clock.”

“It’s been in my family for hundreds of year. C’mon, I’ll show you some of the grounds.”

Bruce led Clark through the sunny breakfast nook and kitchen to the outdoors, Clark was immediately attracted to the vegetable garden a few feet from house. 

“What beautiful tomatoes!” Clark reached out to pluck one off the vine, then froze.

“Go ahead.”

Clark picked the grape tomato and ate it, closing his eyes as he let the taste fill his mouth. “Tastes like sunshine.” A cloud passed and the sun warmed his face, tingling along his nerves. He tilted his face up, eager to feel the rays bathe his skin.

“You’re quite the sun-worshipper.”

Clark’s eyes opened and he blushed. “I…” He reached down and picked another tomato, shyly holding it out to his Master.

Bruce looked at it for a moment, then took it and popped it into his mouth. “Mmm, delicious.” He was touched by Clark’s generosity. “Now, over here are the more formal gardens.”

A brilliant green lawn stretched out for several yards, meticulously manicured and sloping down toward the seawall. Marble statues ringed the circular interior bordered by neat English boxwood hedges. A fountain made of Italianate marble was set in the center, water splashing in the curved basin. Off in the distance the ocean sparkled. 

“How beautiful,” murmured Clark. A slight breeze ruffled his hair.

“I agree,” Bruce said as he beheld the sight of his new bedslave drinking in the outdoors. “I think you should begin an exercise program every morning out here. You’re in great shape, and it would be a good thing for us to keep you that way.”

Clark blushed, then winced as his hand flew to his head.

“What’s wrong, Clark?”

“A pain…shot through my eyes.”

“Sensitivity to light. Symptom of Wertham’s.” Bruce fished out a pair of glasses from his pocket. “These glasses are tinted. Try them on.”

Clark obeyed, the pain lessening as he settled the glasses on his nose. Blinking owlishly, he felt his chin cupped and his head turned by Bruce. 

“They’re perfect!” Delight laced his voice. “How do you feel?”

“Better.”

“Excellent. Keep those. We’ll get you a spare pair." Bruce checked his watch. “I have to get going. Stay out here until Alfred comes for you.”

“Yes, Master.”

Bruce began to walk toward the house, then turned back and put his hand behind Clark’s neck, his fingers bumping against cold, unyielding metal. He drew in his slave in for a kiss, Clark’s stomach fluttering. 

When Bruce broke the kiss, his dark-blue eyes sparkled. “I’ll be back later.”

“Yes, Master…Bruce.”

Bruce smiled and he went back to the house.

& & & & & &

After Bruce left for the city, Clark helped Alfred with housecleaning. He also assisted with harvesting the garden, an enjoyable task out in the autumn sunshine.

“Now, the last of the tomatoes are ripening,” Alfred said, depositing the vegetables into a wicker basket. Clark carried its twin, his large hand delicately picking each tomato off the vine. “We’ve had quite a good harvest. I froze some of the bounty and will make sauce with them. Master Bruce enjoys all cuisines, Italian included.”

Sunlight glinted off Clark’s bracelets as he worked. He was grateful for the glasses. His headache was fading. 

“Excellent,” Alfred said as he surveyed the empty vines. “We’ll have some for lunch.” He smiled knowingly at Clark’s eager expression.

The two settled down to a lunch of turkey sandwiches, pickles, and the fresh grape tomatoes. Clark’s appetite was healthy as he ate everything put in front of him. Praising Alfred, he was delighted to sample a slice of lemon cake. 

“You are quite the culinary aficionado,” Alfred said with a smile.

“I do like good food,” Clark admitted with a slight blush.

“Good, because I’m not a bad cook, if I do say so myself.” Alfred drank the lemonade he had freshly-squeezed that morning. “Are you a good cook? Master Bruce can’t boil water.”

“I don’t know.”

Alfred put down his glass. “So your memory loss is complete?”

Clark nodded, feeling embarrassed.

“It’s a symptom of your illness, though I know your head injury caused it to be complete. When was your last shot?” 

Clark thought. “Five days ago.”

“When do you need another one?”

“Tomorrow.” Clark sighed. “I need a shot every six days.”

“Very well. You needn’t worry, I am quite capable of administering shots. Of course, Master Bruce may wish to do so, unless you have been doing it.”

Clark frowned. “No, the…the slavers…did it.” He looked at Alfred. “I should learn.”

“We can start tomorrow, then.”

Clark nodded.

As he followed Alfred down to the laundry room, he thought apprehensively of the shot. Not only did it hurt like hell, but he always felt more fuzzy-headed and weak when he got one, at least for the first day or so. Unfortunately that was the case for the day before as well, though he was pleasantly surprised that he was feeling so good today.

Oh, well, better than full-blown Wertham’s, I suppose, which it would be with no treatment at all.

Clark felt himself relax as he helped Alfred. He was fast developing a liking for the older man.

At the end of the chores, Alfred gently pushed Clark outside, promising a full tour of the grounds tomorrow. Clark eagerly returned to the gardens. He loved the smell and sight of growing things. They were delicate yet strong enough to survive Nature’s storms and fury.

Clark was already starting to like this place. It was the loveliest place he had been since he had awakened in the slavers’ camp. Since his life before that day was gone, Wayne Manor easily took the prize.

He felt safe here.

& & & & & &

“Clark.”

The slave looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. “You’re back, Master.”

“Since I’m standing here, I’d say that’s self-explanatory.” Bruce laughed at Clark’s blush. “Don’t sweat it, Clark. Come on inside. The tailor and engraver are here.” He held out a new pair of glasses, dark ones this time. “Put these on.”

Clark wondered for what event the engraver would be engraving invitations. He stood up and dusted his hands off, removing his old glasses for the new. He realized that they would obscure a part of his face, not allowing the visitors to see it fully. He followed Bruce into the mansion.

The tailor, Edgar LaRouche, was a tall, thin man with long fingers, his practiced eye able to guess Clark’s sizes right away. He used his tape measure for precise measurements, discussing ideas with Bruce.

“He’ll need a dozen pairs of pants, silk shirts, boxers…let’s see, I’d like to see some white silk, maybe some yellow and green, and definitely light-blue. Of course there must be formal suits.”

“Will you be in need of a Veil, sir?”

Bruce considered. “Yes, the full complement. That can be done last. It’s only in case of no choice.”

“Very good, Mr. Wayne.”

Clark stood quietly throughout the fittings. He took a deep breath. “Master?”

“Hmm, yes?” Bruce was watching Edgar mark a dark-blue jacket with chalk.

“May I get a pair of jeans and flannel shirt?”

Bruce’s attention snapped back. Edgar looked horrified. A smile curved Bruce’s lips.

“Of course. Edgar needn’t supply them. Alfred can pick you up some clothes.”

“Thank you.” Clark’s smile lit up the room.

After Edgar was finished, the engraver stepped forward. A small man with quick movements, George Fontaine took fine, silver tools out of his leather carrying case. 

“Have a seat,” Bruce said to Clark. He was scrupulous about not saying Clark’s name. That was not for public knowledge, just for his intimate circle, such as Alfred.

Clark sat on the couch, attaching a sheet of parchment. The stylized letter ‘W’ was in the center of a large five-pointed star, surrounded by five other stars set in a circle.

“Arm out,” said George.

Clark obeyed, startled as George started etching his bracelet.

George frowned, squinting behind his jeweler’s loupe. “Damn,” he muttered.

“What is it?”

“This…metal…its pretty tough.” George rifled around in his case. “This’ll require my hardest diamonds.”

The design took shape on the rainbow-sparkling bracelets, then on Clark’s collar. As George worked, Bruce explained, “The Wayne family crest is too elaborate, so way back when, they came up with this design.” Bruce’s teeth gleamed. “My ancestors probably read too many Captain America comics as kids. All this star-spangled goodness.” He frowned slightly. “The publishers foolishly killed him off in the early 21st century, but happily brought him back. I mean, how can you kill off an iconic hero like that just to make money?” Bruce’s voice relaxed Clark, who had to remain perfectly still. 

_This is truly…truly being owned by Bruce._

In some way, the marking of his slave jewelry was even more of a possession than being taken.

_Though maybe not. He…he took me as a Master takes a slave, not an equal. So I guess it doesn’t matter how he marks me._

_He owns me either way._

When George was finished, Bruce looked at the artisan’s handiwork.

“Excellent.”

Clark wasn’t sure if he felt ashamed, happy, …or safe.

& & & & & &

“Dinner is ready, sir,” Alfred said.

“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce led Clark into the formal dining room. “Your seat is to my right.”

Clark took it, looking around with interest.

The furniture was heavy, dark and very old, but it was all polished and gleaming, the impossibly long table draped in snowy white linen. Bone china with handpainted gold accents were set before two chairs, a pair of yellow candles set in gold candlesticks a few feet away. The crystal chandelier was on low setting, creating a soft-edged ambience.

The meal was quiet but comfortable, Bruce pleased at the day’s accomplishments and Clark enjoying Alfred’s cooking. There was vegetable soup and a salad filled with the garden tomatoes. Tender roast beef with broccoli, carrots, and baby red potatoes satisfied Clark’s appetite. He was delighted to see the lemon cake make another appearance.

After dinner Bruce and Clark were headed for the living room when Clark paused by the library and looked in, longing on his face.

“You know how to read?” Clark nodded. “Then consider the library your playground. You may read any book you find on the shelves.”

Joy suffused Clark’s face. “Thank you, Master.”

Clark and Bruce watched television for a few hours, Clark becoming drowsy. A hand on his shoulder roused him.

“Go up to bed. Stay there and get some sleep. I work very late. I want you to be ready when I want you.” 

Puzzled but pleased at the thought of more lovemaking, Clark obeyed. He was happy to climb into bed, eschewing any sleepwear. He had to be ready.

& & & & & &

Clark awoke, reaching out a hand. Empty. He rolled over and checked the digital clock. 3:00! He sat up, straining to hear anything. Had Bruce fallen asleep in his study?

He began to get out of bed, then remembered his orders. Well, surely a visit to the bathroom was permitted. He went into the private bathroom off the bedroom and emerged a few minutes later, walking over to the window. He parted the heavy black drapes and looked out at the moonlight silvering the grounds. Mesmerized by the beauty, he watched the play of that moonlight over the ocean.

_So peaceful here._

Clark let the drapes fall back and returned to bed. Snuggling under the silk sheets, he reflected on the horrors he had known before Bruce had bought him.

The word ‘bought’ made him shiver. He burrowed further under the covers.

& & & & & &

“Wake up, Clark.”

The whispered command roused Clark. Blinking, he saw Bruce kneeling beside him on the bed.

“I hope you’re ready, Starchild.”

Clark had no time to even check the clock as Bruce stretched out on top of him.

He tilted his head back and Bruce began a slow, sensuous bathing of his throat with his tongue…


	5. The Gettysburg Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark learns more about the society that has enslaved him.

_"Most Civil War historians and buffs are fascinated by the ‘what-ifs’ of what is arguably the most wrenching historical event in American history. So many opportunities for those old arguments about how history could be changed if the Union had lost at Gettysburg, for example, or if the South had disbanded its army after Appomattox and had continued the war as guerrillas. It’s kind of like the Butterfly Effect."_

  


**Charles Emerson Pierce  
"The Gettysburg Effect And The   
Shaping Of The American Future"   
1961 C.E.   
(Special Civil War Centennial Edition) ******

Bruce groaned as he rolled over. The shaft of sunlight pierced his eyes.

“Alfred!”

“Sorry, sir, but your meeting is at 9:00.”

Bruce swore under his breath. Damned Government! Beside him, Clark awoke groggily.

“Will you be coming down to breakfast, sir?”

“Yes.” Bruce scrubbed scratchy eyes. “I’ll be down as soon as I shower.”

“Master Bruce.”

“What?” Bruce stumbled out of bed, pulling on a robe.

“Clark requires his shot. Will you be administering it, or shall I?”

Bruce looked down at Clark, who was disoriented. “I will, Alfred. Get the medicine, will you?” 

Alfred nodded. He left the room, returning a few minutes later with a bottle and the hypospray.

Clark was apprehensive as Bruce filled the syringe. The red liquid sparkled in the morning light.

“Your arm, Clark,” Bruce said quietly.

Clark obeyed, trembling slightly as Bruce’s steady hand pressed the needle against his arm and injected him. Clark bit his lip, flexing his hand.

“I’m going to shower, Clark. You do so after me and come down to breakfast.”

“Yes, Master.” Clark’s voice was faint.

Bruce put the medicine back into Alfred’s hands. The hypospray would be sterilized and re-used, an improvement over the old-fashioned needles.

He quickly showered and dressed, running downstairs and detouring to the study. He sorted through papers on his desk and threw a batch into his briefcase, placing it on the hall table as he hurried to the kitchen.

“Coffee, Alfred!”

A cup was steaming in front of his plate. He sat down and ate golden homemade waffles drowned in Vermont maple syrup. Clark appeared and took his place to Bruce’s right. 

“Delicious, Alfred.” Forcing himself to eat slower, he finished the waffles and then stood up. “Clark, we’ll work out an exercise regimen for you tomorrow but get outside sometime today. You may use the library at any time.” He dashed upstairs to brush his teeth and re-comb his hair, then ran downstairs and grabbed his suitcase as he hurried through the kitchen and out the door, calling goodbyes over his shoulder.

“Whew! Quite a whirlwind!” Clark said.

Alfred smiled. “He always has been.” He studied his companion. “Are you feeling all right, Clark?”

Clark winced. “I…after a shot I feel dizzy, sometimes a little nauseous.” He rubbed his forehead.

“Hmm, well, Wertham’s Disease is a strange one. Not only the memory loss…”

“Well, it’s worse because of the head injury.” Clark attempted a smile. “Kras said it was a good thing I had a hard head.”

“Kras?”

“My…the slaver who was in charge when I woke up.” Clark closed his eyes, wishing the throbbing would go away. His stomach was protesting the little breakfast he’d eaten. “He said I had to be re-trained because I’d forgotten everything.”

“Yes, because you’re Human, once a slave, always a slave.” At Clark’s puzzled expression, Alfred explained, “Human freemen cannot be enslaved, at least not by other Humans. There are races that enslave willy-nilly, but when slavery became the foundation of Human society, they established an immutable caste system. Once born a slave, you remain one forever, as once born a freeman, you remain one, at least here on Earth. Other races in the galaxy aren’t so respectful of Human laws and have enslaved free Earthmen for their own purposes.” Alfred poured himself more coffee. “A Human Master cannot free his slaves even if he wishes to do so.” 

Clark frowned. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

“I daresay,” Alfred said dryly. He gently put his hand on Clark’s shoulder. “Why don’t you lie down?”

Clark protested, “I can help you with your chores.”

“Young man, I’ve been doing these chores since before you were born. I am most certain I can handle them on my own for a day. There’s a comfortable couch in the library if you don’t wish to return upstairs.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

Clark brushed off Alfred’s offer of help. He made his way carefully to the library, keeping a hand close to the wall. 

He entered the quiet library and stretched out on the couch, resting an arm across his eyes after setting his glasses aside. Alfred had caught him off-guard, otherwise he would have kept his discomfort to himself. 

Which was ironic, he supposed, since just before his shot, he always felt dizzy with occasional heart palpitations, but often felt that same way right after the shot. 

_I feel like something’s going to burst, like I have all this pent-up energy. And then in the next moment, I feel drained._

Alfred was right. Wertham’s Disease was strange.

He listened to the ticking of the mantel clock, hoping that the throbbing in his head would go away.

& & & & & &

When Clark awoke a few hours later, his headache was better. It had not disappeared completely but was good enough for him to sit up. Putting on his glasses, he stood and began his perusal of the shelves.

There was an abundance of fiction, a good proportion of them mysteries, and books on American and world history. There were histories on the Galactic Confederation and the Empire, books on criminology, art, and a rich, leatherbound book entitled _A History Of Gotham_. 

Clark noticed the thick tomes on the pier table: _A Guideline For Slaves_ and _The Slaveowners’ Manual_. He should really read the _Guideline_. There was so much he needed to know, but his dull headache was sure to flare up again if he tackled that today.

He selected a book, _Victorian America_ , and settled into a big, overstuffed chair, putting his feet up on a cassock. He could feel his blood pressure up and it was good to keep his feet elevated. He opened the book and began reading.

& & & & & &

 _The reversal of the trend toward abolition on Earth began with the American Civil War. The war was hard-fought between North and South in the struggle for the soul of the United States of America. The North wanted to keep the Union intact. The South wanted its independence._

_Underlying it all was the slavery question. After the Emancipation Proclamation was official on January 1, 1863, the South grew more desperate. Their way of life would fall before the abolitionist meddlers from the North._

_The driving force behind the North, President Abraham Lincoln, was shot at Ford’s Theater on April 14, 1863*. He died the next day, and his successor Hannibal Hamlin** took over, but lacked the messianic will of Lincoln._

_That following summer, the Southern troops under Robert E. Lee marched North to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and won a stunning victory against the Union troops under George B. McClellan***. That victory brought the war home to the North and was the ultimate turning point of the great struggle. The South’s resiliency, lack of political will from the North, and military intervention by England caused the Union to sue for peace in the autumn of 1864. By New Year’s Day, 1865, the Civil War was over, and the Confederacy began to expand slavery Westward.****_

_As slavery flourished, enormous profits drove other countries to re-establish a practice they had abolished, or expand existing practice. The study of eugenics proposed that the weak should be enslaved and cared for by the strong, and that it should cut across racial lines._

_By the dawn of the 20th century, slavery was not only firmly entrenched in every society on Earth, it was also supported by every major religion and would be eternal: no slave could be freed, as it was the Divine Will to ordain who was free and who was not, and the economic powerhouse that is Earth today is laid upon a foundation of order and prosperity._

& & & & & &

Clark closed the book, understanding his world better now, yet sadness filled him.

He rose from the chair, glad his dizziness was less now, and picked out a mystery to bring upstairs. As he passed the study, he paused to look at the painting over the mantel.

“Alfred?”

“Yes?” asked the butler, who was dusting the hall table.

“Those are Master Bruce’s parents, right?”

A sadness crossed Alfred’s face. “They were.”

“Were?”

“They were killed by a gunman when Master Bruce was eight years old.” Alfred took a deep breath. “He witnessed it.”

“Oh!” Horror flooded through Clark. “How terrible!”

“He…is a very intense man, Clark. You would do well to remember that.”

For a moment Clark wondered if he was being reprimanded, then realized that Alfred was trying to help him.

“Yes, sir.”

Clark insisted on helping Alfred with chores, then readily accepted the butler’s suggestion of resting. He was still shaky.

He chose the living room this time and turned on the television. Flicking channels, he settled for an early bird version of the evening news. A story about a fire led the newscast, then he was startled to see a picture flash onscreen: _"The Batman foiled a robbery at the Gotham First National Bank early this morning around 1:00. The crooks were a little worse for wear but were fine as the Gotham Police got an early-morning delivery. Commissioner Gordon said…"_

Clark studied the picture. During his captivity he had heard snatches of conversation about Gotham’s Dark Knight. A strong, square jaw; an intense set to his cowled eyes, the grimness of the Bat costume… 

Clark supposed he should be afraid of this Batman, but he was more intrigued. How exciting would it be to meet him?

_Though maybe not in a dark alley._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our Universe’s Historical Facts:
> 
> *President Abraham Lincoln was shot on April 14, 1865, not 1863.
> 
> **The Vice President who succeeded him was Andrew Johnson, not Hannibal Hamlin. Hamlin was the Vice President during Lincoln’s first term, 1861-1865. By the beginning of the second term, from March 1865 until April 14th, Andrew Johnson was the Vice President. Inaugurations were held in March until 1937, when the date was changed to January 20th. FDR thought that his first Inauguration in March of 1933 had taken too long to be held while the country was in the grip of the Great Depression crisis, at its worst in those dark days. The original date had been set because in earlier times, the four months between election and Inauguration was needed due to longer travel times. It was not necessary by the time of the 1930s. 
> 
> ***George B. McClellan was beloved by his troops, but that may have been because he never seemed too eager to take them into actual battle. He had whipped the Army of the Potomac into shape after their dreadful loss in the First Battle of Bull Run in July of 1861, but he had what Lincoln called “a terrible case of the slows” as he put together a shining camp, but was reluctant to actually put the men into battle! He was replaced by George G. Meade, who won at Gettysburg but failed to pursue Lee and finish him off, to Lincoln’s great consternation and anger. It was still the turning point of the War as Vicksburg also fell, a day after the July 3rd end of the Gettysburg battle. Ulysses S. Grant was the victor of Vicksburg, and Lincoln had finally found his general. Grant would become the head of the Union war effort and eventually spearheaded the Virginia campaign while his friends and colleagues General William Tecumseh Sherman marched through Georgia and the Carolinas to the sea, and Philip Sheridan savaged the Shenandoah Valley, breadbasket of the Confederacy.


	6. The Great Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce attends a Government meeting but can’t quite keep his mind on the agenda.

_"The earth shook as if Nature herself was enraged._  
People were swallowed up as in the Ancient Testament of the Book of Rao.  
Trees split in two and rivers overran their banks,  
the oceans sending tidal waves slamming into the coastal cities."

_“The Jewel Mountains splintered into a million fragments,  
glittering shards raining down upon the earth.” _

_“Kryptonopolis broke apart as if it was a sand castle on the beach. Buildings shuddered and convulsed, the terrified populace running for shelter, but there was none.”."_

  


**Accounts of the survivors of  
** Krypton’s Great Destruction  
(also known as the Great Catalysm),  
found on fragments of parchment  
in the Caves of Ravol on Rigel IV  
2226 C.E. 

Bruce swore as he knocked his ankle against a chair in the lobby of Wayne Enterprises.

_Damn the Government, anyway! Why do they have to call meetings at such ungodly hours?_

Bruce scrubbed his scratchy eyes with the heel of his hand. He wished he had gotten more than a few hours’ sleep.

_Of course, I could’ve skipped sex with my pretty slave, but why would I do that?_

He allowed himself a leer.

He traveled up in the elevator, glad that at least the meeting was in his own building. He hated Government buildings. They were dark, dreary places that always depressed him.

His own Wayne Enterprises Building was sleek and very 23rd century, as befitted a business empire. The Wayne Foundation building was an ancient 19th century structure that befitted a philanthropic organization. He liked the dichotomy of it.

_Just like so much in my life._

The elevator stopped on the 16th floor and he bypassed his office. He was already late.

Several men were already in the main conference room. “Sorry for my tardiness, gentlemen.”

“It’s all right, Bruce. Our Government man called and said he’s stuck in traffic.”

Bruce dropped his briefcase on the table in frustration. “Great!” He turned and smiled. “Hi, Harvey.” 

“Hi, Bruce.” They shook hands. “Don’t worry, your secretary has us well-supplied with bagels and coffee.”

Bruce sat in his chair while everyone resumed chatting. “I think I might jettison my contracts with our dear Government!”

“Ah, Bruce, always wanting to be in control.” Harvey Dent poured his old friend a coffee. “Relax, Hargrove will be here soon.”

Bruce sipped the coffee as he tried to take Harvey’s advice. If he relaxed, he would be more alert for the meeting.

“Hargrove will probably be hitting us up for campaign contributions like a good little civil servant. ‘Tis the season.”

Bruce grimaced. “Why bother with the farce of a presidential election? Democracy is as dead as Captain America. Well, as in two hundred years ago when they killed him off, anyway. Thank god someone had the good sense to resurrect him.”

“Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. Tradition!”

Bruce snorted. “Dictatorship is more like it.” He lowered his voice.

“True.” Harvey chewed on a blueberry bagel. “But no Big Businessman can survive without the Big, Bad Government.” Harvey began tapping the wood table with his fingers. “A United Earth is essential within the Empire.”

“Mmm.” Bruce sipped more coffee. Harvey was bright, a man who had earned a law degree and then an MBA just to stretch his intellectual muscles. He was now one of the most successful businessmen in Gotham.

Harvey leaned closer. “Rumor has it that the Empire is gearing up for war.”

“With whom?”

“The Collective.”

Bruce shivered. The Collective was a group of planets beyond the Outer Rim populated by dangerous, war-like aliens. The humanoid races of the Empire maintained a constant vigilance against the sadistic creatures who were so utterly alien as to be incomprehensible to the Human mind.

“They’re stepping up the Hunt, too.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. “Are there any left?”

Harvey nodded.

Bruce poured more coffee. 

The Hunt.

For Kryptonians.

In the Galactic Empire of the 23rd Century, Kryptonians were considered renegades. On Krypton, slavery had been abolished centuries ago. As the Empire’s precursor, the Confederation, had begun to form, the citizens of Krypton were prominent in the new galactic order, only to find themselves fighting an uphill battle as slavery began to spread throughout the galaxy. 

During this period, the Kryptonians had discovered their race’s capacity for superpowers under a yellow sun and became increasingly strident as the years passed and the slave trade became more profitable, fueling more planets to keep their slave institution or establish bondage. Kryptonians became more active in the fledging abolitionist movement, using their powers to put serious dents in the massive slave trade. As Confederation-became-Empire, a cataclysm shook the Known Worlds: Krypton exploded.

Bruce knew the conspiracy theories: that Empire and slave trader forces had schemed to destroy the planet. The official story was that an unstable planetary core had doomed Krypton, but many people believed the more sinister explanation.

In the chaos of Post-Cataclysm, the Government of the Galactic Empire solidified its precarious position by rounding up and executing any off-planet survivors of the race. It was easy to hunt down the non-super Kryptonians. As for those who lived under yellow suns, a new weapon emerged: Green Kryptonite.

In perhaps what was the supreme irony, the fragments of the shattered planet proved deadly to the survivors but only in their super-powered forms. The Government gathered up the fragments and kept them under lock and key, given only to the agents and bounty hunters obliged or contracted to hunt down Kryptonians. 

Harvey’s voice dropped nearly to a whisper. “Kryptonians would shake the very foundations of our society and those of the Galactic Empire. We can’t have that, especially if we end up warring with the Collective. They would demand abolition! Slavery’s too much of a foundation for our prosperity. Besides,” Harvey concluded as he learned back in his chair, “Who wants people with the powers of a Kryptonian running around, anyway, especially if they aren’t loyal to the Government.” The tapping grew more insistent. “Balance, Bruce. The Universe demands it. Black and white, slave and free, it’s all two sides of the same coin.” His eyes shone with an odd light. “Order will prevent chaos.”

Bruce allowed the hot coffee to slide down his throat. Harvey’s eyes were always a strange, light color which became even odder when he was intense. It always made him feel uneasy.

“Sorry about the delay, gentlemen.”

The Government man went to the chair at the head of the table, and everyone settled in to listen.

The meeting was filled with dry statistics, and Bruce’s mind began to wander. He thought of his pretty slave back home and smiled as he took a sip of coffee, glancing down at his notes.

_He nearly choked on the coffee. His beautiful slave knelt naked at his feet in the mandated position: legs spread, manacled wrists crossed behind his back, the sunlight streaming in through the windows and setting his collar to sparkling. His dark head was bowed and Bruce reached out a hand, grasping Clark’s chin and bringing his head up._

_No dark glasses, just starlit eyes. Bruce felt himself drowning in those eyes. He gently stroked his slave’s throat, Clark stretching his neck to give his Master more skin to touch. Clark closed his eyes, purring softly._

_Bruce’s groin grew hot and he shifted uncomfortably. He hand slid down to Clark’s nipple, tweaking and pinching while his slave moaned. Bruce pleasured the other nipple, then indolently used his other hand to break off a piece of bagel and feed his slave, who stretched his neck to reach Bruce’s hand. He gratefully took the morsel and chewed, Bruce caressing his cheek as he watched him swallow. Clark bent his head, then raised it enough to look up through dark lashes as his eyes sparkled as prettily as his collar._

_Bruce tried to concentrate once more on the meeting, but gasped as warm lips suddenly surrounded his cock, which was just as suddenly out of his pants and in his slave’s mouth. He shifted…_

“Bruce.”

Bruce looked up, startled. Harvey whispered, “Snap out of it, boy. Don’t worry, no one’s noticed your daydreaming but me.” He smirked with a glint in his eye. “That whore I heard you bought must be one fine piece of ass to have you off in the Land of the Lust.”

Bruce flushed, hastily reviewing his notes, his pants stretched tight as Harvey chuckled.

& & & & & &

Back at the Manor, the object of Bruce’s lusty daydreams had just finished helping Alfred with the daily chores and was now enjoying some free time in the library. He picked up The Gettysburg Effect And The Shaping Of The American Future, opening to the page he had bookmarked:

& & & & & &

_There were still abolitionist societies as the Civil War Centennial was celebrated in the early 1960s. They began to gather steam, resurrecting the old societies while reviving moribund current organizations. In tandem with the black civil rights movement of the time, the movement to abolish slavery began to cause social unrest. Whispers began that the President, John F. Kennedy, was planning to give a speech to the nation on January 1, 1964, the 101st anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation and declare his support for the abolitionist cause.*_

_In November of 1963, the President and his wife Jacqueline traveled to Texas on a political fence-mending trip in preparation for the 1964 campaign. Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson and his wife ‘Lady Bird’ accompanied them._

_On the 22nd, JFK was murdered in Dallas._

_Not long after this shattering event, the abolition societies began to lose ground again until only a few fringe societies remained._

_Conspiracy theories abound to this day that the reason for the assassination was because of the abolitionist rumor, but the Government has denied this and the official explanation is that a lone disgruntled gunman, Lee Harvey Oswald, committed the murder._

_Recently one of the fringe societies, the National Abolitionist Society, has begun a revival again. Headquartered in Boston, the hotbed of abolitionism in the 19th century, chapters have begun springing up across the country, allied with the Canadian Abolitionist Society._

& & & & & &

Clark set down the book. The first book he had read had detailed the Civil War, and this more recent book could update him on contemporary history, he hoped.

His gaze fell on _The Guideline For Slaves._ He had better start reading it. He doubted that his Master would appreciate any breaches of etiquette.

He opened to a chapter at random and began reading. The further along he read, the deeper his blush became. 

“Clark.”

He jumped, nearly knocking over the lemonade on the table by his chair.

“Master Bruce called. He is on his way home.”

Clark nodded and put the book on the pier table, heading upstairs to shower and change.

& & & & & &

“What a day, Alfred! First I rush into town for a 9:00 meeting and and the big shot Gov man is late! Then we had to endure a meeting of stats, timetables, and other exciting topics.”

Alfred’s tone was amused. “Such is the life of a corporate tycoon, sir.”

“Ha!”

Clark entered the kitchen. “Good evening, Master.”

“Hello, Clark. Put this briefcase in my study, will you? I’m going to run upstairs and shower.”

Clark felt relaxed at the domestic scenario. It was amazing how quickly he had adapted to this house, and to Bruce and Alfred.

His next task was setting the diving room table, careful with the china plates. Another side effect of his illness was occasional loss of coordination.

By the time Bruce came down to dinner, Clark was standing by his chair and Alfred was carrying in the soup bowls. As soon as Bruce sat down, it was the signal for Clark to do so.

It was quiet for the first course, both men hungry and concentrating on the delicious vegetable soup. During the salad course Clark asked, “Master?”

“Yes?”

“I…I was reading _The Guideline For Slaves_ today.”

“Good.” Bruce speared a tomato with his salad fork.

“It said…” Clark blushed slightly “…that the proper position for a bedslave at dinner is…”

At his hesitation, Bruce arched an eyebrow. “…naked and kneeling at my feet?” At Clark’s quick nod, Bruce smiled sardonically. His hand trembled slightly as he buttered a warm dinner roll. “I could do that, Clark. I could have you undress, kneel on a satin pillow, cross your wrists behind your back, and feed you whatever I deigned.” Bruce drank his wine, again with that slight tremble. “However, I am certain you are quite capable of feeding yourself. And I prefer a companion I can converse with as opposed to feeding.”

Clark felt a warmth spread through him. His eyes sparkled as a smile played around his lips.

Bruce took a bite of lettuce. “I may ask you to assume that position someday, Clark, and it may be in a room full of people.” He looked at his slave. “I expect obedience.”

For a fleeting moment, Clark felt resistance, a sharp pain slicing through his head, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. Eager to please, he said, “Yes, Master.” 

The meal continued in silence, then Bruce began to discuss general events, Clark happy to join in.

Later that night, as Clark lay in bed waiting for Bruce to come upstairs as the hall clock ticked toward midnight, he ran over his reactions.

Slavery was a life with little dignity and what little he had was only by the grace of his Master. He was very lucky with this Master but he would have to be careful not to overstep his bounds. Bruce Wayne came from a long line of slaveowners and expected obedience.

Clark resolved to make sure that Bruce was always proud of him.

Satisfied, he turned over and tried to some sleep before his Master would come upstairs and demand what was his right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our Universe’s Historical Facts:
> 
> *President John F. Kennedy did not plan to give a speech abolishing slavery, of course, but he did give a televised speech on civil rights from the Oval Office for the first time in the nation’s history after particularly brutal treatment of peaceful black demonstrators in Birmingham, Alabama. 
> 
> The facts of his November 1963 Texas trip with his wife are sadly true.


	7. Lull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is distracted by his Starchild.

_The Starchild lived by the sea,  
Living life quietly,  
Absorbing the moon and the sun,  
He was my only one._

  


**Marion Zimmer Grayson  
"Tales of the Starchild"   
2106 C.E. ******

Bruce stopped at the kitchen door, watching Clark in the gardens. 

Clark’s face was tilted toward the sun, his eyes closed and his arms outstretched as if worshipping Aton, Egypt’s God of the Sun. A light breeze blew off the ocean, ruffling Clark’s wavy hair.

Bruce walked toward his slave, resting a hand on Clark’s shoulder. The other man jumped, turning quickly.

Bruce had noted Clark’s skittishness before. No doubt a legacy of the slavers. He smiled to calm his slave.

“You look good in those new clothes.”

Clark looked down at his dark-blue pants and red sweater. “They’re very comfortable.”

“Good.” Bruce cocked his head. “You will have to change, though.”

“Change?” Clark’s eyes lit up. “For our exercise program?”

“Yes.” Bruce was pleased at Clark’s enthusiasm. “Come on in.”

They walked to the basement, which was set up with various gym equipment. Bruce wanted to keep Clark in good health, or as much as he could with the disease.

They changed into black leggings and T-shirts, Bruce showing Clark the different machines. After a round of the equipment, they faced each other on the mats. Bruce taught Clark some wrestling moves, impressed by his slave’s strength. Bruce was quick but Clark possessed his own share of alacrity. Bruce liked the match of skills. He was far more practiced but once Clark put in some hours, he was sure that his slave would give him a run for his money.

Sweat suited Clark. It glistened on his bare arms and neck accentuated by the glittering slave jewelry, Bruce’s pulse pounding. He remained clinical in his teaching but was thinking of the delights Clark offered in his bed.

As Clark copied a move, Bruce thought of his reactions to this man since he had first laid eyes upon him. What was about it him that had lured Bruce from the very start? Was it the incredible beauty? The promise of sexual delights? The vulnerability?

Because Clark was vulnerable. Bruce had seen it in his eyes. Was it because of his loss of memory? Certainly that could make a man unsure. Was it because of his slave status? Again, that could leave a man feeling vulnerable.

Bruce felt a rush of protectiveness toward Clark. Eager to please like an overgrown puppy, there was a sweetness and innocence about him that touched Bruce. He was a prized possession, surely, and…what? 

“Master?”

“What?” Bruce stumbled. Clark reached out and steadied him by placing a hand on his arm.

“Are you all right?”

_I lost focus._

Disturbed, Bruce stared at his slave for a moment, then said, “Lesson’s over today, Clark.” He smiled to soften his abrupt words, glad to see the sudden anxiety leave Clark.

The other man nodded, picking up towels and handing Bruce one. “Will you teach me how to fly?”

Bruce blinked, then laughed as he looked over at the trapeze. “You’re not afraid of heights?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, then, I just might teach you. I enjoy aerialist routines. Great method of conditioning.” Bruce flipped the towel over his shoulder as he led Clark to the shower off their bedroom. “Usually we always get a circus through in the spring and we get to see real professionals at work.”

They showered and dressed for lunch, eating in the kitchen as the scent of apple pie baking in the oven filled the room.

“Mmm, Alfred, smells heavenly,” Clark said.

“The apples are freshly-picked from trees right here on the estate. Master Bruce is especially fond of them in pies.”

Clark sniffed. “I can smell why.”

Pleased, Alfred said, “They will be ready for tasting at tea time.”

“Excellent, Alfred,” Bruce said. “I’ll be in the study.” As Bruce rose, he suggested, “Clark, would you like to get a book?”

“Yes.” Clark loved to read and was soaking up knowledge as fast as he could absorb it. Amnesiac or not, Clark’s intelligence was high.

“Good,” Bruce casually said as he exited the kitchen, “there are comfortable chairs in the study, too.”

Clark’s look of surprised delight amused Alfred. “Go on, I’ll clean up.”

Clark hurried out of the room with a big smile.

& & & & & &

Bruce wrote some notes while waiting on hold on the telephone. He glanced up and saw Clark settled comfortably on the couch, a book in hand and a stack beside him.

Bruce completed his call, watching the sunlight streaming through the window and bathing Clark in a golden glow, his rainbow-tinted bracelets sparkling like precious jewels.

 _An apt description_ , Bruce thought as he put down his phone.

“Tea time, sir.”

“Very good, Alfred.”

Alfred set down a still-warm piece of pie with a silver fork and linen napkin in front of Bruce, then handed a plate to Clark.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

The butler nodded. Bruce hid his smile. He knew that Alfred approved of the new slave’s manners. “Someone taught that boy correctly,” he had told Bruce. Manners, Alfred said, made men civilized creatures.

_Civilized. I guess you could call us that, with our chains and guidelines and ownership papers. Very civilized to buy and sell a man like a piece of furniture._

Bruce frowned. Where had those thoughts come from? Without the solid foundation of slavery, there would be chaos.

He ate a piece of pie. Excellent, as always.

“Oh, this is delicious!” Clark was fairly glowing with appreciation.

Bruce smiled. Another thing he had noted about his slave was his love of food. Well, that was good. Healthy, in fact, if one ate the right food and didn’t go too far in excess. He wanted his Prize to be as healthy as possible.

Perhaps it was time to show him off a little. Bruce had a business meeting at the Gotham Stock Exchange tomorrow. That might be a good place to start.

Bruce felt a nervous energy tingling through his body. He remembered the wrestling session that morning. He tapped on the computer keyboard, trying to concentrate on his proposal. 

_My Starchild is certainly a distraction._

& & & & & &

Clark jerked awake. Heart pounding, he looked around the dark bedroom, sighing in disappointment at the empty space beside him.

_Master Bruce is certainly a workaholic._

He got out of bed, pulling the drapes back at the window.

Moonlight silvered the gardens, sweeping out over the ocean. Clark felt himself relax. The peace of this place helped him when he became anxious or depressed.

His fingers clutched the drapes. A man without a past, slave or not, teetered on the edge of anxiety every day. A man like that only had the present and the future.

Clark let the drapes fall, the sound of a high-powered motor muffled in the distance. He headed back to bed, noting the time on the clock: 2:00. Sighing, he crawled back under the covers.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and Bruce slipped in. Clark turned his head. “Master?”

“Shh, my beauty.” Bruce divested himself of his clothes. Climbing into bed, he caressed Clark’s face. Clark kissed the palm of Bruce’s hand, a tingle of excitement running through his limbs sparked from contact with Bruce. His Master was alive with energy, beautiful eyes aglow with a desire that thrilled Clark. 

Bruce slid his hands over Clark’s chest, brushing his nipples. He smiled at Clark’s moan, letting his hands stroke jutting hipbones, solid thighs, and the flat stomach. One hand cupped the heavy penis, stroking the sensitive flesh. Clark writhed beneath the expert touch, eager to give whatever Bruce wanted.

Bruce pleasured him to the brink, free hand combing through his hair. Clark clutched the headboard, eyes closed and head thrown back, thrusting his hips up as the final wave hit, spilling over into Bruce’s hand.

Panting, Clark relaxed into the pillows, his Master nearly purring with delight as Bruce ran a hand over his slave’s sweat-gleamed chest. He cleaned off his other hand, dark-blue eyes glowing.

“Very good,” whispered Bruce. His body trembled as he stroked himself, sure hands parting Clark’s legs. He prepared his slave with cream from the bedside table, his eyes nearly wild with lust.

“Ready,” Clark moaned, heart pounding as Bruce entered him, setting up a rhythm that brought tears to Clark’s eyes. He was filled with hot, demanding flesh, and his eyes focused on the shadowed face above him. As Bruce climaxed, he whispered, “All mine,” as he collapsed atop his slave.

Tears glistened in Clark’s eyes as his arms slid around Bruce.

He was safe…and happy.


	8. Honor Served

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gentleman’s Code of Honor should never be broken.

_"A gentleman should always be honorable  
in all of his dealings, especially  
with those who are his friends."_

  


**Bertram Ellison Adams  
"The Gentleman’s Code"  
1832 C.E.**

Bruce surveyed Clark, noting his nervousness. His slave was freshly-showered after their work-out, dressed in a white silk shirt and light-blue slacks. He fingered a manacle and awaited Bruce’s verdict. 

Bruce pushed the hanging strands of Clark’s hair off his forehead. He didn’t want the curl showing. He didn’t know why but he had learned long ago to trust his instincts.

“And, of course, your dark glasses.”

Clark slipped them on.

“Very good, Master Bruce,” Alfred approved.

“Well, a full Veil wouldn’t allow for much companionship.” Bruce crossed his arms, his all-black outfit flattering him. He looked like a commando in turtleneck and slacks, Gucci loafers on his feet. “I could keep Clark here under a House Veil, but I do want to be able to walk through a bazaar or in the park with a companion, not a possession.”

“So the debut of the latest Wayne Acquisition has come?”

“Yes, it is a coming out, isn’t it?” Bruce looked at Clark. “So, Clark, ready to be introduced to the world?”

Still nervous, Clark nevertheless squared his shoulders. “Yes, Master.”

Bruce and Alfred exchanged approving looks. 

“Will you return for dinner this evening, sir?”

“I intend to. If my plans change, I’ll call you.”

Alfred nodded. “Have a good day, Master Bruce, Clark.”

& & & & & &

The ride into the city was quiet. Cars were generally quieter than those of earlier generations , powered by the element irridium as discovered thirty Earth years ago, though a powerful engine could still make a noticeable noise. Bruce wondered at his uneasiness.

_I could keep him hidden away. I will if I have to, but damnit, I want to have him with me._

“Where are we going, Master?”

“To the Gotham Stock Exchange. I need to see some people. Then maybe we’ll have some lunch.”

Clark looked worried. “Will I have to…to kneel…?”

“No, you’ll be seated just like me in a restaurant.” At Clark’s look of relief, Bruce felt a twinge of guilt, then continued, “You will have to keep your gaze downcast, glasses or not, when I meet someone.” Clark nodded. “And, Clark…” Hi slave looked directly at him “…you must obey me instantly.”

Clark removed his glasses, his eyes a very clear blue. “Always, Master.”

Bruce felt a surge of happiness at such an oath of fealty.

_Of course he must say so. You’re his Master._ Bruce adjusted his wristwatch. _Hmph. You know it was different._

Bruce and Clark emerged from the limousine in the heart of the financial district, Clark’s dark glasses firmly back on.

Well-dressed stockbrokers and other financial mavens hurried by on their way to self-important destinations. There were no reporters or paparazzi around but Bruce knew it was only a matter of time.

A woman dressed in a Russian sable tottered by on high heels, leading a young man by a length of chain attached to his collar. Another slave trotted by, sunlight glinting off his collar as he held a manila folder in front of him.

They passed a newsstand. Copies of _Christianity In The 23rd Century_ posed the question, _'The Great Debate: Do Slaves Have Souls?'_ ; the cover of _Time_ asked, _‘Is The Batman Necessary?’; Gotham Arts And Culture_ featured a story on the current exhibition at the Gotham Art Museum, _‘Amazons In Chains’_ , and _Washington Weekly_ opined on the Senate’s Armed Services Committee recommending an increased budget for the Pentagon.

Bruce and Clark entered the Victorian-era building that housed the Gotham City Stock Exchange. The lobby was filled with people coming and going, Bruce forging ahead as he and Clark headed for the trading floor.

“Bruce!”

Bruce stopped, Clark sidestepping just in time to avoid bumping into him.

“Hi, Ollie.”

Ollie Queen smiled as he held out his hand and Bruce shook it. “Glad to see you out and about, Bruce. You’ve been working at home a lot.” He looked at Clark, whose head was bowed, as was proper. 

“Yes, well, I needed to attend to some things.” Bruce knew protocol demanded that he grasp Clark’s chin and present him for inspection unless he chose to ignore his slave’s presence. The lack of presentation would label him property of either no consequence or of such prized status he was not to be exposed. 

But no notice of him would be more compatible with a Veil.

All of this raced through Bruce’s head in the space of a few seconds. He decided on another option: he lightly touched Clark’s arm just above the manacle. Clark raised his head, Bruce noting with pride the look of appreciation in Ollie’s green eyes. Ollie had seen Clark at the auction but not this close. 

_He’d probably propose marriage if Clark removed his glasses,_ Bruce thought in amusement.

“So, why are you in Gotham, Ollie?”

“I had a meeting with Harvey. We’re working on a Government contract together.”

The three men walked toward the trading floor, Clark staying a step behind.

“Is this a new one?”

“Yep.” Ollie stroked his now-beardless chin. “Looks like the rumors may be true.”

“About the Collective?”

Ollie nodded. “Been awhile since we had a war.”

“Mmm.” Bruce frowned. “A war with the Collective would be full-scale, messy, and very lengthy.”

“That’s why the Govs want to start loading up.”

“What’s the manpower situation?”

“Not sure.” Ollie waved to an acquaintance. “The breeding farms are supplying the slave soldiers, but stories have been drifting around that they’re short of freemen officers.”

The noise of the trading floor blasted out as the ornate doors opened. While Bruce usually preferred quiet, his pulse always raced with excitement when he entered the floor.

_Maybe the financial buzz is in my blood._

Bruce and Ollie surveyed the scene from the balcony that ringed the chaotic floor below. Clark leaned over, interest obvious in his face.

Brokers shouted and listened to earpierces feeding them information, computer screens glowing with numbers. Large television screens dominated the floor, news reports mixed in with trading numbers flashing across the screens.

Bruce watched the monitors. He saw no evidence of any military build-up, but then the Government would want to keep it quiet until they had subtly prepared people for the possibility. Businessmen like Ollie would be privy to much more information than the general public. 

Ollie pointed down to the floor and waved. “There’s our brokers. I set up a meeting with them.”

Bruce nodded. Meeting with his broker had been the reason he had come into the city. Ollie was a bonus.

“I see you have a new whore.”

Bruce turned. Harvey and another businessman, Dax Mantell, were smiling wolfishly at Clark. Ollie remained cool but inched infinitesimally closer to Clark.

Bruce allowed his smile to be cordial. The term was not insulting because technically it was true, but he still disliked it.

“Harvey, Dax.” He inclined his head. “I didn’t know you were on-planet, Dax.” 

The Rigellian smiled. Resembling Earth Humans, the Rigellians were the first race that mankind had encountered as they had moved out into space in the 21st century. His dark hair was streaked with purple, a natural hair coloring for his species.

Rigellians also were one of the oldest races to practice slavery, renowned experts in the slave trade. Paired with the Orions, they dominated the richly profitable industry.

“I just arrived yesterday.”

The accent was slight but noticeable. Clark stiffened, his fingers curling around the railing.

“Can we see your new pet, Bruce?” Harvey asked. His eyes were nearly glowing as they raked over Clark’s body.

“Certainly, you may view my Prized Possession.”

Bruce lightly touched Clark’s arm.

As Clark turned, Bruce saw the understanding on Dax’s face. Bruce had deliberately used the euphemism for bedslave, which also telegraphed a ‘hands-off’ policy.

_Let them ogle all they want. They won’t be seeing much._ Bruce wasn’t about to order Clark to disrobe for them. _Damn, maybe I should have Veiled him._ But he didn’t want that! He didn’t want Clark to trail around after him either half-naked or completely covered. Maybe he should just have left him at home, but he didn’t want that, either. 

His scowl seemed to amuse Harvey, who was eager to undress Clark, even if only with his eyes. Clark kept his gaze downward, remembering the protocol, and Bruce deliberately did not lift his chin up. Dax was enjoying a survey, but more restrained than Harvey’s open leer.

“High quality, Bruce,” Dax said appreciatively.

“Yes, extremely high quality,” Harvey purred. His hand hovered close to Clark’s hip, but it would be extremely bad taste to touch Bruce’s slave without permission. “Such delicious lips.” Harvey turned to Bruce. “May I taste him?”

Bruce was caught in a quandary. He could certainly refuse the request. He had the right, but Harvey was an old friend as well as a business colleague. It was a simple request, unlike asking that Clark disrobe or be loaned to him for a night. If he refused, it could be construed as a mild insult.

He felt Ollie’s supportive presence beside him. Ollie could have asked for the same privilege but had refrained from doing so.

Bruce made a decision. Clark was his to protect but he was a slave and there were certain codes of honor among gentlemen. He disliked the thought of hurting Clark but insulting an old friend was not very honorable.

“Go ahead,” he said stiffly, arms crossed. As Harvey reached out to touch Clark, Bruce said, _“Just_ a taste.” 

Harvey looked at him with amusement but nodded. Bruce felt his muscles tense as Harvey lifted Clark’s chin. The dark glasses had to be left on, because he had no permission to lift the Veil, so to speak. Harvey’s thumb traced Clark’s jawline all the way down his throat. Bruce could see Clark’s tension, but his slave had been well-trained. Resistance was not only forbidden, it would disgrace his Master.

Harvey drew Clark in for a long, deep kiss, enjoying every minute of his opportunity, his hand caressing the slave’s ass as he pressed Clark close. Bruce’s expression was thunderous but he said nothing. Ollie and Dax exchanged looks.

Harvey broke the kiss, stepping back. He knew not to push it.

“Mmm, high quality indeed. Well, Dax and I have to take a meeting. Care to join us for lunch later?”

“No, thanks, I have plans.”

“A pity. Nice to see you, Bruce, Ollie.”

Harvey and Dax walked down to the trading floor, Ollie saying, “Our brokers are waiting.”

“Right.”

Bruce felt anger: at himself, at Clark for making him feel that way, at Harvey for imposing on their friendship. He looked at his slave.

Clark was still standing motionless. Bruce gently grasped his hand, feeling the slight trembling. He took a deep breath, then relaxed when Clark squeezed his hand. “Let’s go,” he said to Ollie as he released Clark. He knew his slave would follow.

When they reached a conference room, Bruce dithered. If he brought Clark inside, his slave would have to kneel at his feet. Seating him like a freeman in a non-social setting was a breach of etiquette. On the other hand, he felt uneasy about leaving Clark by himself. If someone touched him, he was forbidden to resist but he could yell for help since Bruce’s property was being violated. 

“We shouldn’t be that long,” Bruce said. He reached into his pocket and pressed a card into Clark’s hand. “If you get hungry or thirsty, there are some vending machines down the hall. This building’s too old for servos.”

Clark silently took the debit card, his eyes unreadable behind the glasses. Bruce followed Ollie into the conference room, closing the door behind him. 

& & & & & &  


Bruce and Ollie shook hands as they emerged from the conference room. Their successful deal was going to be highly profitable for the both of them.

“Well, I’m off to Star City,” Ollie said.

“Care to stay for lunch?”

“Thanks, but I want to get back in time to take Dinah to the _Stones_ concert.” 

“What, is Mick Jagger’s great-great-great-grandson the lead singer for the band now?” Ollie smirked. “How is Dinah?”

“She’s great. Her flower shop’s expanding into a chain. You may be seeing one open up here in Gotham soon.”

“Tell her to steer clear of Pamela Isley.”

“That woman who calls herself Poison Ivy?”

“Yes.” Bruce grinned. “She’s not so bad. Doesn’t like the Government at all. She thinks they’re destroying the environment.”

“She might be right.” Ollie crossed his arms. “It’s a good thing we have population control. The Earth’s resources could be strained too much if we hadn’t colonized other planets.” 

“Looks like that new hero of yours is into the Gaia movement. He’s all dressed in green.”

“My new hero?” asked Ollie in amusement.

“He’s located in Star City, isn’t he?”

“True.” He looked down the corridor. “Where’s your Prize?”

Bruce experienced panic as he saw the empty corridor, but clamped it down. He was far too emotional when it came to Clark.

“He probably just got something to eat.”

“You’re right. Here he comes.”

Clark was indeed walking down the hall, carrying various items.

“Are you finished with your meeting, Master?”

“I am…Clark.” It was the first time he had uttered his slave’s name in front of anyone besides Alfred. Ollie looked pleased. Knowing a prized slave’s name was an honor. “Are you ready for lunch?”

Clark nodded. “I did get us some snacks but we can save them. I did get bottled water. I got one for you, too, Mr. Queen,” he said shyly, emboldened by Bruce’s use of his name in front of Ollie.

Ollie smiled as he took the proffered water bottle. “Thank you…Clark.”

Bruce felt a rush of affection for his friend.

“Oh, and I got sesame crackers for you, Master. Alfred said you liked that flavor very much.”

“I do. Thank you.”

All three drank from their water bottles, then Ollie said, “Well, I have to get to the airport. I’ll take a raincheck on that lunch, Bruce.”

“Excellent.” He looked at Ollie. “Honor Served.”

Ollie inclined his head with a smile. “Honor Served.” He looked at the quiet man beside him. “Goodbye, Clark.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Queen.”

Bruce felt pride in the friend who acknowledged his slave, and the gentle charm of that slave. He thought of the tasting earlier and pushed the sudden guilt away.

“Come on, Clark.”

& & & & & &

The restaurant was not one of the very exclusive ones that Bruce frequented, but still one of the best in town. It was a family-owned, and he knew Claire and George Standish well. Their family had owned _The Country Kitchen_ for generations, and served American standards in creative ways. Bruce was enjoying his roast beef sandwich and steak fries while Clark was happy with his chicken sandwich and vegetable fries, both sharing an assortment of vegetables that were locally-grown.

Bruce had decided on the laidback restaurant instead of an upscale establishment. He sensed that Clark would be more comfortable here. 

_You’re getting soft, Wayne. Why are you so concerned over what a slave wants? He’s here to serve you, nothing more._

Bruce sighed. _Total bull, of course._

“Did you accomplish everything you wanted to in your meeting?”

“Yes.” Bruce was happy that the deal had been relatively easy to consummate. “I guess you could say we’re celebrating.”

Clark beamed.

They topped off their meal with apple pie, Clark declaring, “It’s good, but Alfred’s is still the best.”

“I’ll have to agree with you there.”

As they left the restaurant, they were suddenly ambushed by dozens of paparazzi and reporters.

“Mr. Wayne, can you tell us what the name of your bedslave is?”

“When did you purchase him?”

“Why after all these years did you decide to buy one?”

Bruce dodged the reporters, tugging Clark by the hand. They managed to clamber into the limousine before the pack closed in again.

“Whew!” Bruce said. “Reporters can be bloodhounds sometimes.”

Clark nodded.

& & & & & &

_“C’mon, whore, let’s see what you’ve got.”_

_The heavily accented Rigellian voices were mocking as hands tore at his clothes, glowing eyes and laughing mouths closing in on him. Terror leaped up in his heart, closing his throat and making it difficult to breathe._

_He ran, begging for help but no one answered. Shadows slithered around him, his heart pounding as mocking laughter rang in his ears._

_He tripped, crying out as his knees jarred on hard ground._

_“Just a taste, slut.”_

_The mouths and hands descended on him…_

& & & & & &

The scream ripped through the room as Clark jerked up, muscles rigid and heart threatening to pound out of his chest. Strong arms grabbed him and he fought, terror rising blindly as he stared into darkness.

“Clark! Clark! It’s all right! Shh, it’s okay.”

Clark gasped, nausea sweeping over him. He clutched Bruce’s arms, trembling as Bruce pulled him close, stroking his hair and rubbing his back while he kept up a patter of soothing words.

_Safe._

He closed his eyes and held on tightly.


	9. Sun's Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark experiences unusual energy in autumn’s sunlight.

_The sun was gold,  
So I was told,  
And he was clothed,  
In raiments bold._

  


**Psalm To Aton  
"Songs Of The Sun God"   
1346 B.C.E.**

The golden days of September were turning into the riotous colors of October. The trees around Wayne Manor blazed flame-red, bright gold, and burnt orange. Clark helped Alfred pick apples from the trees on the estate, the butler teasing him, “So that’s why I get help. You just want more pies!”

“You’ve found me out, Alfred,” Clark answered, eyes sparkling.

Routine settled upon Wayne Manor. Whether Bruce could stay or not, Clark exercised every morning, helped Alfred with chores, walked around the gardens, and read in the library.

Clark was happy to spend any time with Bruce. His Master was a busy man, but there were morning work-outs unless he needed to get into the city early, and evenings were spent in quiet companionship until Clark was sent to bed and Bruce would come to him in the early hours of the morning.

Clark kept the nightmares suffered while Bruce was absent from their bed to himself.

_‘A slave should never bother his Master with trifles.’_

The words from the _Guide_ came back to him, but it was beyond that: he did not want Bruce to know aside from the Master/slave dynamic.

It was the same reluctance that forced his silence about his headaches and bouts of weakness. Bruce was kind enough to supply him with the medicine he needed to stay functional, so he felt it was only right to keep symptoms to himself. 

_I contribute to this household, and not just in Master Bruce’s bed._

The sex was great and made him happy. What little memory he had before coming to Wayne Manor was not pleasant when it came to sex, not at all.

Clark resolved to stay positive. Bruce treated him well. He had allowed Harvey a taste, but Clark had done more reading and realized the dilemma that Bruce had faced. Despite wishing for a different decision, Harvey plundering his mouth was not the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

And now, this very morning, he was going to fly!

& & & & & &

“We’ll test to see if you have a fear of heights.”

Clark nodded as he and Bruce stood at the bottom of the pole of the rigged trapeze. He began climbing the spikes until he reached the platform several feet up. 

He carefully looked down, grateful that he wasn’t dizzy today. In fact, he felt excitement as he looked far, far down at Bruce.

“I’ll be right up.” 

Bruce was a good teacher. He patiently explained safety precautions and techniques. Clark listened quietly, then was flying before he knew it.

The trapeze was sturdy, Clark sailing out over the net far below. Exhilaration coursed through him.

_I belong here!_

Bruce was pleased with his natural abilities. He flew, too, promising Clark that they would eventually work up a routine together.

When they reached the bottom of the pole, Bruce said, “You’re pretty natural up there.”

“Thanks.” Clark felt the adrenaline still running through his body.

“How about a swim?”

Delighted, Clark nodded.

They took a rough footpath down to a private beach located close to rocky cliffs. Clark tasted salty tang in the air, wading into the surf beside Bruce. 

“Can you swim?” 

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Confident that Bruce would rescue him if he lacked swimming skills, Clark plunged into the surf.

Not only could he swim, but he was good at it. Powerful strokes cleaved through the water as Clark reveled in the cold water. The Atlantic Ocean in October? ‘Bracing’ was a good word for it.

“Well, looks like we’ve discovered another talent,” Bruce said as they broke the waves.

“Must be my day for them.”

The cold water stimulated their muscles, Clark thrilled to feel so healthy.

& & & & & &

 _“The Batman foiled a robbery on Gotham’s Gold Coast last night. An upscale jewel thief, the Catwoman, was attempting to steal the Winthrop Diamond. The Batman saved the diamond but Catwoman got away.”_

Clark watched the newscast with interest. The Batman was Gotham’s protector, rarely seen by the citizenry as he worked in the shadows. Some editorials on TV and in the newspapers opined that he was a vigilante and not to be trusted. The Government was not thrilled with him or the other costumed heroes operating in other cities: Green Arrow and Black Canary in Star City; the Flash in Central City; the Thanagarians Hawkman and Hawkgirl in Boston. 

Clark had read up on the Dark Knight. He had been the first of the costumed heroes to appear and was the most feared among them.

_“In other news, Commissioner Gordon assures the City Council that security will be tight for the upcoming convention of the National Abolitionist Society at the Gotham Convention Center this November. All the chapters from the 50 U.S. states will be represented by their chapter heads. Socialite Kathy Kane will represent this state…”_

“Clark.”

“Yes, Alfred?”

“Are you still interested in learning to bake apple pie?”

“Very,” Clark answered with a smile.

“Good. Your first lesson will be tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll still be the best baker and cook around here.”

Alfred snorted. “Flatterer.”

Clark laughed.

& & & & & &

Clark came awake slowly, the velvety darkness of Bruce’s bedroom warm and protective. He wished that Bruce was beside him but once again his Master was working late. He yawned and rolled out of bed, visiting the bathroom.

On his way back to bed the wind rattled the windows. Clark parted the drapes, watching the play of silvery light on the ocean. Just as he was about to let the drape fall back, he was startled to see a light flash in the sky.

The round yellow light encircled a bat symbol. Fascinated, Clark gazed at the famous Batsignal. A powerful car thrummed past the Manor, the only other sound the waves crashing on the rocks below.

The light shone like a pale sun, lining the scudding clouds with golden striations. That black bat was a symbol calling Gotham’s protector to Police Headquarters. It was a unique method of summoning the Bat from the shadows. 

Fifteen minutes later the light winked out and Clark returned to bed, snuggling under the covers and feeling safe.

& & & & & &

 _A pretty impressive pile of leaves, if I do say so myself._

Clark admired the colorful pile, bagging them to carry to the woods. 

The gardener, Ben Applewood, had been hired by Bruce years ago to keep up the estate. During the autumn he brought in extra help as the grounds closest to the house needed raking. Clark helped for the exercise, his manacles and collar glinting in the sun.

Ben combed his fingers through thick silver hair. His body was strong and well-muscled from hard work, and he had declared Clark a ‘good specimen’.

“Thanks, Mr. Applewood.”

“Mr. Wayne in town?”

“Yes, he had a lot of meetings today.”

“You still gonna bake him that pie?”

“I intend to.”

“You’re a treasure, boy.”

Clark smiled. The outdoor work always relaxed him. He felt comfortable as the sun warmed his skin.

Lifting his face, he drank in its rays, energy surging through his body.

Whoa! He stumbled as a wave of dizziness assailed him. Odd, usually I feel good in sunlight. Maybe too much of it isn’t a good thing.

He wondered at the sensation of energy coursing through his veins. It had pumped through him like a galloping stallion, wild and strong. He waited for his heart to stop racing.

“Catch!”

Ben tossed a rake at Clark, who caught it mid-air.

_Crack!_

“Wow!” Ben shook his head. “Guess that was a flimsy one.”

Clark looked sheepishly at the broken rake. “Sorry.”

“Aw, forget about it.”

Clark’s heart returned to normal.

“Clark, time for your lesson!” Alfred called from the kitchen door.

“Excuse me, Mr. Applewood.”

Clark was eager to start his baking lesson. Alfred was a good teacher.

“You seem to have quite a knack for this,” the butler observed. “Perhaps you already know how to bake.”

“I might,” Clark agreed. “But I’ve probably forgotten most of it.” He smiled. “It just feels natural somehow.” 

Just like sitting in a warm kitchen with the smell of pies baking seems familiar.

Whether it was the comfort that he felt at Wayne Manor or an indication of his past, he would probably never know, but the kitchen brought a sense of happiness to him. After Bruce’s bedroom, it was his favorite room in the house.

The smell of fresh apples and cinnamon filled the kitchen, the radio playing jazz as Clark kneaded dough and cut apples for a second pie. The first one was baking in the oven.

“Master Bruce will be quite impressed.” A mischievous glint entered Alfred’s eyes. “He is quite hopeless in the culinary arts.”

Clark laughed.

After the second pie was placed in the oven, the two sat at the kitchen table and drank Earl Grey tea, the radio crackling with static. “You seem robust today,” Alfred observed.

Clark smiled. “Very much so.” He sipped his tea. “I feel really good today, Alfred. The best I can ever remember, short as that memory is.”

& & & & & &

Clark’s energy translated into helping Alfred with his chores and doing a quick job of it, then did more raking and pulling up the last of the vines in the vegetable garden.

By the time that Bruce came home, Clark was bouncing with energy.

& & & & & &

Bruce felt the energy as soon as he saw Clark. Amused, he watched as Clark eagerly presented him with a piece of pie.

“I’m impressed,” Bruce said sincerely. “This is delicious.”

“He’s a natural,” Alfred said with pride.

The whole evening remained charged with energy, Bruce suggesting a work-out a few hours after dinner. As they wrestled, Bruce was surprised by Clark’s unusual aggressiveness. Bruce slammed Clark to the mat, looming over him as sweat glistened on their bodies, their breathing harsh as Bruce gripped his slave’s arms.

“Looks like baking pies isn’t your only talent.”

Clark’s smile dazzled Bruce, and he leaned down and took Clark in a fierce kiss. Clark moved against him, hands sliding up and down his back.

“Mmm,” Bruce purred, pleased at the sexual charge between them. He tasted salty sweat on Clark’s neck, licking at the collarbone beneath the shining collar, down to the chest as he pushed up the T-shirt. Thumbs flicked sensitive nipples, replaced by a hot mouth. Suckling each nub had Clark writhing beneath him, hardness meeting hardness through their shorts. Bruce moved down, nearly ripping apart the shorts in his haste, blowing lightly over Clark’s straining cock as it was freed from cloth restraints. Bruce stroked it, skilled hands bringing his slave to climax, Clark’s fingers digging into his arms.

He pushed the errant curl from his slave’s forehead, his own blood pounding as his erection strained his own shorts. Clark’s eyes sparkled as his hand moved to the bulge, stroking and then pressing with the palm of his hand. Bruce groaned as Clark peeled his shorts off, Bruce’s cock sliding along Clark’s chest and brushing his lips as Bruce shifted and braced himself. “Suck me,” he growled as he grabbed handfuls of dark hair, Clark eagerly swallowing him whole. 

Bruce flung his head back, hot wetness engulfing his cock, blood rushing as his energy exploded into his slave’s mouth, Clark’s hands cupping his buttocks.

Drained, Bruce slipped out of Clark’s mouth, curling up next to his equally-sated companion.

“Wow,” Clark said.

Bruce laughed. “I agree.” He nuzzled Clark’s neck, the collar’s cold metal a stark contrast to the overheated skin. _He really **is** hot_. Bruce sat up. “We need a shower.”

They dressed and walked up to the bathroom, tossing their sweaty clothes into the hamper and plunging into the shower, soaping each other and then kissing under the cool spray. Moans and grunts mingled with the sound of water as Bruce pushed Clark up against the tiles, pouring bath oil on his fingers and pulling Clark’s buttocks apart. The moans that filled the air drove Bruce on, his cock replacing his fingers as he pushed in.

“My beauty,” he whispered in Clark’s ear, his hand reaching around and fondling Clark’s balls. He slid in and out, then pressed hard one last thrust, Clark’s semen coating his hand as his own seed spilled down Clark’s thighs.

 _Yes, definitely talented_ , he thought with a grin as he kissed his slave’s shoulder.


	10. Flying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flying is in Clark’s heart and soul.

_For the Gods,  
 _The gift of flight  
Is what makes them  
Strong and bright._  
_

  


**Elysia  
  
"Laurel Leaves  
  
And Other  
  
Amazonian Poems"  
326 B.C.E. ******

_“Sunspot activity has returned to normal. The interference on radios, television and other electronic equipment should no longer be a factor. Ships in the Space Fleet are able to navigate without the problems experienced in the last few days._

_“In related news, Air Force majors Hal Jordan and Steve Trevor will test the latest space fighter, the X-16, on Moonbase Tranquillity today.”_

Alfred prepared waffles and strawberries as Bruce walked into the kitchen.

“So you will be working from home today, sir?”

“Yes, Alfred.” Bruce took his seat as his slave appeared. Clark’s smile faded as he touched his temple and winced. “Clark, what’s wrong?”

“I…seem to have a bit of a headache this morning.”

_“Come book a cruise for Paradise Island, home of the most beautiful female slaves in the world! Princess Cruises is offering a great deal for the holidays…”_

Clark sat down as Bruce frowned. His slave’s boundless energy had disappeared, leaving a weakened Clark behind.

“Did you take aspirin?”

Clark started to nod but quickly stopped. Bad idea.

Sympathetically Bruce said, “We’ll skip the work-out for you this morning.”

_“In Star City, Black Canary and Green Arrow took down a gunman who threatened to kill a class at Benjamin Harrison Elementary School.”_

Alfred set the plate of waffles and strawberries before Clark, who took a tentative bite, testing his queasy stomach.

_“The Batman was seen last night all over the city, preventing robberies, muggings and at least one attempted rape. Witnesses say he seemed charged with energy…”_

“Take a short walk after breakfast, then lie down on the couch in the study.”

“Yes, Master.”

Bruce was satisfied that he had come up with a solution of sorts.

& & & & & &

Clark hated feeling so weak. The energy he had enjoyed the past three days had been exhilarating, but now he was as drained as an old battery, not to mention suffering from a hellacious headache.

The skies were cloudy and the wind cold as Clark walked around the garden, dizziness forcing him to cut it short. He carefully made his way to the study, stretching out on the couch.

_It doesn’t help that I’m due for a shot tomorrow._

He closed his eyes, trying to quell a queasy stomach, smiling as Bruce entered the study an hour later.

It remained quiet as Bruce read paperwork, worked on the computer, and made the occasional call. Clark was relaxed despite his headaches, the sense of sanctuary strong. He began to drift off to sleep…

& & & & & &

_The fields stretched out, tall and yellow with wheat and corn. A strong wind blew, bending the stalks._

_He walked through the rows upon rows, the smell of fresh corn sweet. Birds sang full-throated warbles, and a field mouse dashed across his path._

_Blue. The sky was a shocking, cloud-filled blue. Warmth from the sun kissed his skin, his heart soaring as he lifted his face skyward._

_His manacles and collar lay at his feet. With a sigh, he took a deep breath…and flew._

_High, high up in the sky, wind rushing through his hair, strength flowing as he flew!_

_He laughed. Joy spread through him like the sun’s rays._

_He was free._

& & & & & & &

“A good dream?”

Clark blinked awake. Bruce was sitting on the edge of the couch close to him.

“Yes.” He smiled as he rubbed his eyes. “A nice change.”

“Good.” Bruce smiled and gently ran his fingers through Clark’s mussed hair.

Clark hoped that the good dreams would always outweigh the bad.


	11. Swift And Severe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a slave breaks the Code, there are severe consequences.

_"When a slave touches a freeman  
while not in defense of his Master  
or Mistress, punishment shall be  
swift and severe."_

**  
"The Slaveowner’s Manual"  
  
2222 C.E.  
  
(26th Edition)**

It was a beautiful day for a walk. Clark was feeling better, so Bruce suggested a change of scenery. Their pace was brisk but leisurely enough to enjoy the colors of the trees as they walked along the road, Clark in his dark glasses as always outside the estate. The houses in this neighborhood were set far back from the road, hidden behind iron gates and long driveways, so they met no one until they had been out for half an hour.

“Hello, Bruce,” said a graying, distinguished, elderly gentleman as he exited one of those iron gates, cane in hand. A boy of about twelve and a girl around eight were on the driveway behind him, playing catch.

“Hello, Edmund.”

The businessman didn’t even glance at Clark. Bruce wasn’t even sure that Edmund Caldwell knew that Clark was there. Slaves were invisible to him.

“I hear those Russian imports are taking the city by storm. Funny what the latest fads are.” Edmund leaned on his cane.

“Yes, well, we have off-world goods to choose from, too.”

Edmund pounded his cane on the ground. “Our booming economy will flourish under our ordered social structure. Mankind has never been more prosperous…”

“Yes, well…”

The little girl’s shriek interrupted their conversation. The boy hit her again, snarling, “You stupid bitch!” He raised his hand to strike her yet again when Clark moved quickly, grabbing the boy’s wrist and shoving him away, turning to the sobbing girl.

Bruce felt fear clutch his gut as he saw the collar and manacles on the little girl and none on the boy, who he recognized as Edmund’s grandson Sam. Sam screamed, “He laid hands on me! You fuckin’ whore!” He slammed his fist across Clark’s face, then reached down to pick up a bat that lay at his feet and aimed at Clark’s head.

Bruce was there to grab the bat, wrenching it out of Sam’s hands. “Enough!” he growled. 

“That whore touched me!” Sam spat.

“Clean up your language,” Bruce snapped.

“Your slave laid hands on my grandson,” said Edmund. “You know the punishment for that offense.”

“I’ll see that he’s punished. You have my word.” Bruce lifted his chin. “Honor Served.”

Edmund’s gray eyes were like flint. “It’s my right to see the punishment carried out here.” He barked out, “Kevin! Carlos!” Two burly men came down the driveway, dressed as gardeners. Edmund Caldwell never noticed slaves…until they violated the Code.

Bruce felt panic twist his stomach. “You can’t…”

“Master?” Clark asked softly.

“Hush.” Bruce said over his shoulder gently as he remained standing in front of his slave, who was crouched down and holding the little girl. “My slave has amnesia. He doesn’t remember all the rules.”

Edmund sniffed. “Ignorance is no excuse.”

A police cruiser pulled up, two patrolmen exiting the car. The older man was craggy, a slight paunch stretching his uniform. “I’m Officer Stabler and this is Officer Benson.” The younger man nodded. “Is there a problem here?”

“This slave of Mr. Wayne’s touched my grandson. Shoved him, in fact, while he was disciplining a slave. I am exercising my right to extract punishment.”

“I can punish my slave…”

“Sorry, Mr. Wayne. Mr. Caldwell is within his rights.”

Bruce clenched and unclenched his right hand. “Very well, but I wish to be present.”

Stabler nodded. “That’s your right, Mr. Wayne.” 

Clark was standing up now, holding the little girl’s hand. His eyes were hidden by the dark glasses but Bruce could read the anxiety in his body. The gardeners took hold of Clark’s arms. He smiled down at the little girl and was tugged away, the men leading him up the driveway to the impressive mansion. 

“Out back, officers.” Edmund sounded almost jovial as he pointed with his cane.

Bruce grimly noted the whipping post situated so that anyone sitting on the porch would have a good view.

“Sixty lashes.” Edmund took a seat on the porch, Sam sitting beside him with a smirk. The old man turned to Bruce. “I hope you have a good supply of herbal cream. We’ll be using the bullwhip.” 

Bruce’s face was a thundercloud. He crossed his arms as he watched the gardeners lead Clark to the post under the watchful eyes of the policemen.

“Strip him,” growled Edmund.

“Can’t you just remove his shirt?” Bruce ground out.

Smug in his power, Edmund waved his hand carelessly. “Shirt only.”

Kevin went to the garden shed and emerged with a bullwhip, hooks attached to the ends of the cat-o-nine tails. He flicked it expertly.

Clark’s shirt was removed by Carlos, who handed it to Officer Benson. Kevin laid the whip on the ground and helped Carlos grab the manacles suspended by rusty chains. They stretched out Clark’s arms, then his legs after locking them into ankle irons, spread-eagling him as Kevin readied the bullwhip. 

The little girl crept up to a bush, her eyes wide as she clutched a branch.

Bruce’s face was set in stone as the first blow landed.

& & & & & &

Clark closed his eyes, the sting of the whip so sharp that it squeezed out his breath. He had never felt pain like this before, or at least in his limited memory.

_Maybe amnesia’s a good thing this time._

Breath hissed out between his teeth as the second blow fell. He tried to concentrate on something else. The warmth of the sun, the cool breezes, anything…

The little girl. Instinct had driven him forward , despite knowing touching a freeman was forbidden. Something in him had screamed, This is wrong!

_I’m sorry, Master. I’d do it again._

A cry escaped from him as jagged hooks tore flesh, pain exploding in his head and body. His muscles trembled as another blow fell, then another, then another. He lost count as his world telescoped down to savage pain and his effort to contain his reaction.

Dazedly he opened his eyes, his stomach churning as he noticed the bloodstains on the wood of the whipping post. How many of the family’s bondservants had stood here where he was standing, suffering this punishment?

He bit back a whimper, trying to take deep breaths.

& & & & & &

Bruce was stone, his muscles rigid. He was a statue in black, arms still crossed. He forced himself to watch.

_If he has to suffer through it, I can watch it._

_Six._

Bruce flinched inside, Clark barely moving. He was silent except for a cry torn from him like the flesh off his back.

_Alfred, I hope we have a lot of that healing cream._

_Ten._

He would be damned if his beautiful slave was going to be disfigured for the likes of Edmund Caldwell and his demonspawn. Laughter brought his attention over to the porch. The two Caldwells were clearly enjoying the show.

_All they need is popcorn_ , he thought savagely.

The sound of the whip smacking flesh curdled Bruce’s insides. This wasn’t some pleasure game with a whip that merely stung for the sake of pleasure. This was a full-fledged punishment with an ugly bullwhip.

He turned back to watching Clark, so grim he thought he might crack and shatter into a million pieces.

_Sixteen._

& & & & & &

Clark heard the whistle of the whip and braced for the next blow. Dizziness swept over him as the pain exploded, and he was grateful for the restraints, otherwise he might have collapsed.

Shame bubbled over like blood. He’d disgraced his Master, a man who had never abused him, been nothing but good to him.

_He must be disappointed and angry._

The sun no longer warmed him. Cold spread along his limbs.

_I wish I could be numb._

He gasped as the pain roared along his back like fire.

& & & & & &

 _Twenty-five._

Bruce wondered if he would grow roots here. Sixty lashes were a high number, but slaves could not be allowed to touch freemen without permission or while not in defense of their Masters. Touching…shoving…a freeman who was disciplining his slave was a grave crime.

But that old jackal doesn’t need to force Clark to endure sixty lashes. He could be generous and reduce the number.

_Thirty._

_But first you have to have a heart._

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught Bruce’s attention. The little girl. For a moment, he resented her, but then he realized how unfair that was and noted the bruises on her face and arms. She had suffered enough, and would suffer in the future.

_Forty._

_Please, Gods Above, let this go quicker._

& & & & & &

Clark thought of his dream. Freedom, flying, how he would love to be in the sky and feel the wind on his face.

He cried out, the latest lash so savage and so deep that he felt nauseous. Blood thrummed in his head, threatening to fly to pieces as his body jerked with the next blow. Laughter rang in his ears and for one terrifying moment, he thought he was back in the slavers’ camp.

Pain became his existence.

For the heinous crime of defending an abused little girl, we sentence you to sixty excruciating lashes.

_Your Honor, if it please the Court…_

The smell of blood was cloyingly strong.

_The condemned may make a statement._

_How do you plead for the record?_

_Your Honor…I would do it again._

The world spun crazily as he screamed.

& & & & & &

 _Fifty-eight._

The scream tore through Bruce as his fingers dug into his arms.

_Fifty-nine._

Clark slumped in his bonds.

_Sixty._

The whip rose again. Bruce moved. He grabbed the whipmaster’s arm.

“Bruce!” Edmund was outraged. “Officers, the erstwhile Mr. Wayne is interfering with lawful punishment.”

Benson looked embarrassed, as if he was at fault. He ran his fingers through short brown hair and looked at his partner.

“Mr. Wayne…” Stabler began.

“The sixty lashes are done. This man was going to administer a sixty-first blow.” Bruce coiled the whip, looking darkly dangerous as he faced the policemen.

“Nonsense!” Edmund sputtered. “Kevin, how many lashes?”

“I was up to fifty-nine, sir.”

“There, you see? Finish the job.”

_“Enough.”_ Bruce threw the whip down and strode toward the whipping post.

Stabler said, “Sorry, Mr. Caldwell.” The veteran officer adjusted his cap. “You’ve gotten your pound of flesh. Leave it be.”

Edmund scowled, Sam sulking beside him.

“Benson, assist Mr. Wayne.”

The younger officer nodded and trotted to the post.

Bruce’s fingers shook as he unfastened the left manacle. He could barely look at Clark’s back, a mass of blood and welts.

_Clark’s beautiful skin!_

Bruce nearly sobbed with rage and sorrow. The smell of blood sickened him.

Benson unlocked the ankle irons, then the other wrist manacle, he and Bruce grabbing Clark before he collapsed to the ground. Bruce’s face settled into a scowl again.

“Can we get a ride from you gentlemen?” Bruce asked the officers.

“Certainly, Mr. Wayne,” Stabler said. “I’ll get the car. Please wait here.”

Bruce was grateful. He wanted to get Clark away from this place as quickly as possible. Silence fell over the tableau until Edmund ambled over. 

“You should have better control of your slave, Bruce. A man of your standing needs to keep perfect control. We can’t have slaves taking liberties.”

Bruce looked at the old man and his smirking grandson. “Stay away from my slave, Edmund. You and Sam both.”

Edmund’s gray eyes glinted. “Just remember you can’t apply that cream for six hours.” A tiny smile curved his lips. “He needs to remember his offense, not to mention his place.”

Bruce’s stomach dropped. He had forgotten about that six-hour rule.

The cruiser appeared and Benson helped Bruce get a semi-conscious Clark into the back seat. Clark’s moan tore at Bruce. “Put that shirt on the seat back.” Benson spread out Clark’s shirt. Bruce let Clark rest his head on his shoulder, but if Clark needed to be laid back, the shirt would soak up the blood.

Thankfully the ride was short. At the Manor, Benson helped him again with Clark. Alfred came out the front door, shock on his face.

“Master Bruce! What…?”

“Help me get him inside, Alfred.”

“I can help you, sir,” Benson offered.

“All right.”

They climbed up the stairs and half-dragged Clark down the hall. In the bedroom they gently laid him on his stomach on the bed after Alfred turned down the spread.

“Thank you, Officer,” Bruce said.

Benson nodded and left the room. “Alfred, please get some water.” The butler nodded and quickly left the room.

Bruce laid a hand on Clark’s bare shoulder. “I’m sorry, Clark.”

Groans. “I…Master…Bruce…”

“It’s all right.” _No, it isn’t._ “I…can’t apply the healing cream for six hours.”

“W…Why?”

“It’s a damn rule.” Bruce crossed around to the other side of the bed. He could see Clark’s face. “I’m sorry.”

Clark looked at him through a haze of pain, then slipped his fingers across the silk sheets to grasp Bruce’s hand. A squeeze, then he closed his eyes.

Swallowing, Bruce squeezed back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sixty lashes _would_ have killed Clark if the Whipmaster hadn't been extremely skilled. He drew blood and inflicted pain but went light on many of the lashes, because despite the Caldwells' bloodlust, they aren't allowed to kill Bruce's slave.


	12. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce struggles with the aftermath of Clark’s punishment.

_"A gentleman’s word is his bond."_

  


**Bertram Ellison Adams  
** "The Gentleman’s Code"  
1832 C.E. 

The clouds had rolled in during the last hour, fitting Bruce’s mood. He sat in a chair by the bed, still holding Clark’s hand.

_Two hours down. Four to go._

He stared out the window, unable to bear looking at Clark’s back…or his face. The grandfather clock in the hall, a twin to the one downstairs in the library, ticked in the silence. A blackbird flew across the window, wind bending the trees. A shower of gold and scarlet scattered down to the lawn.

_It’s all my fault. I should have impressed upon Clark the severity of the consequences of such an action. He’s amnesiac, can’t possibly remember everything he needs to know in this harsh world…_

A sharp intake of breath drew Bruce to look at Clark’s face. The hand in his crushed his grip as his slave labored to fight the pain.

_Enough!_

He ran his free hand through Clark’s hair, leaning down to whisper, “Hold on, Clark, I won’t fail you.” _This time._

Bruce slipped his hand out of Clark’s grasp, leaving the room with the certainty that he’d go mad if he sat there for another four hours listening to his slave’s suffering.

_Code be damned._

He strode down the hall shouting, “Alfred!”

“Sir?” The butler called up from the foyer.

“Get the cream, a bowl of water, towels, and bandages.”

Alfred’s expression changed from apprehensive to proud. “Yes, sir!”

Alfred went on his mission. The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!” Bruce hurried down the stairs and yanked open the door.

Officers Stabler and Benson stood there, looking uncomfortable, while Edmund Caldwell tapped his cane on the portico floor.

“Uh, Mr. Wayne…” Stabler began.

“Yes, Officer?”

“Mr. Caldwell has requested that we check…” the discomfort was getting worse “…to see that you’re following the Code about the wait time, as per the law.”

Bruce stared for a moment, then tilted his head up and spoke in a haughty tone. “I follow the Code, Officer.” His eyes were obsidian in their darkness as he looked at Edmund. “Honor Served.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne. That’s good enough for us.”

“Officer…” Edmund sputtered.

“Sir, Mr. Wayne’s word is as good as gold.”

Bruce closed the door. Stabler would take care of this. Turning, he muttered, “If you can’t go all haughty on people, what good is being the Prince of Gotham?”

He hadn’t broken his honor. He had stuck to the Code and had been truthful about it.

Now it was time to break it.

Alfred appeared with the requested items as soon as the door closed. He had been waiting until it had been safe to come out.

_Alfred, you’re a gem._

Bruce took the bowl and towels while Alfred carried the cream and bandages. They hurried upstairs and laid out everything. Bruce dipped one of the smaller towels in the water and began cleaning the wounds. Clark’s breath hissed. 

“Sorry, Clark.”

Bruce’s touch was gentle as he worked to clean the blood. _So much blood_. He forced himself to restrain his tension, guilt gnawing at him. Clark didn’t need to sense any of that right now.

Little moans escaped Clark. His fingers grabbed a fistful of sheet as Bruce worked. Alfred kept the bowl steady, his expression imperturbable.

After the wounds were cleaned, Bruce began applying the healing cream. He could feel some of the tension drain away from Clark.

It was a travesty, really, despoiling such beauty. The cream would remove the scars and leave only the faintest reminders, but it shouldn’t have happened. Guilty or not, his gentle slave didn’t deserve such severe punishment. Bruce hoped that Clark didn’t notice how his hand trembled as he applied the cream.

Clark’s cool skin was warming under his touch. It felt silky-smooth where the whip had missed.

Though that bastard Caldwell employs a master whipsman. He didn’t miss much.

When Bruce had finished, he whispered, “Try and get some sleep.”

Clark nodded and drifted away.

& & & & & &

_Dark clouds boiled overhead. Wind lashed up from the ocean, cold and wild, slapping his face. He struggled to keep his glasses on as he stumbled. The wind whipped through his hair, cutting through his clothes, stinging his face._

_He began to run down a deserted road past woods and iron gates and walls. The wind was harsh, pulling at his clothes like greedy fingers, shredding his shirt and scoring his skin._

_The wind howled, screaming through the darkness. He ran faster, blood freezing as he heard footsteps. The cries of “Grab him!” and “Slut!” were snatched away by the wind, his heart pounding._

_He was running blindly, confused as screams mingled with the wind._

_“Save us!”_

_He ran faster._

_“You’re our only hope!”_

_His heart pounded._

_“They’re hunting us down!”_

_He stumbled as sunlight suddenly burst upon him, illuminating a gate. Hands reached out beseechingly; ragged, thin people in headbands trapped behind the bars, chains trailing from their necks and wrists…_

_The sunlight faded and chains appeared on him, the manacles cold and harsh against his skin. He crashed into the woods, branches stinging as he ran toward…he didn’t know what._

_Footsteps again._

_He cried out as he fell, mocking laughter so close…_

_“Help me!” The pain cut through his heart. “I need…Bruce!! Help me!!”_

_A great shadow fell across the forest, the footsteps fading as black silk fell over him, covering him protectively…_

& & & & & &

“Shh, it’s all right, I’m here.”

Clark jerked awake, shaking as he opened his eyes. Bruce was lying beside him in the bed, holding his hand. Clark coughed, licking his lips. Bruce poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand, holding the glass as Clark drank gratefully.

“Bad dream?” Clark nodded. “That’s okay. You’ve lived through some of mine.”

That was true. Clark remembered the first time Bruce had suffered a nightmare in his presence. It had been a bad one.

“I…can I sit up?”

Bruce bit his lip. “Your back…wait.” He left the room and came back in with an armful of pillows. “These should help.”

It took a few minutes, but the pillows were arranged and Clark gently set back against them. He winced at first contact, then relaxed. Bruce sat on the edge of the bed.

“Even with the cream, it’ll take a few days to fully recover.” Bruce’s eyes darkened. “They really did a number on you.” Clark’s look of compassion rattled him. Clark had been the one whipped, not him!

“I’m sure you’ll take good care of me,” Clark said softly.

Something flickered in Bruce’s eyes he couldn’t quite identify. “Yes, well, don’t go touching a freeman without permission.”

“But that little girl…”

“…is owned by Edmund Caldwell.” Bruce saw the flicker of rebellion in Clark’s face. “I mean it, Clark. If you can’t control yourself, I’ll have to keep you under a House Veil.”

Clark looked away for a moment, then returned his gaze to Bruce. “I’ll do better, Master.”

Bruce didn’t push for more. He had only known Clark for a matter of weeks but he already knew that Clark had a big heart. Seeing that young girl beaten…

Bruce did not like to think of her, or what she might be going through right now.

“Good,” he said brusquely. “Now, I’ll go down and see if Alfred can heat up some soup for you.”

“Thank you.”

This time Clark thought he saw guilt flash across Bruce’s face, but his Master merely nodded and left the room.

Clark closed his eyes. He had an unpleasant memory to add to the time he had spent with the slavers.

_At least I’m balancing the bad with the good since I came here._

He winced at a sharp twinge in his back. He supposed he should be angry at Bruce for handing him over as he had done with Harvey Dent, but that had just been a kiss. This had been a full-scale flaying.

_Yet I can’t find it in me to blame him. He’s only going by the code of society that clamps down on everyone, slave or free. And I didn’t help matters by deliberately breaking a rule that slaveowners would pitch a fit over._ He pulled the sheet up a little higher as he shivered. _In some ways, Bruce is as chained as I am._


	13. Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Clark recovers, Bruce never leaves his side.

_Paradise,  
Once lost,  
Is found,  
With the joy  
Of his smile._

**  
Wallace Whitman  
  
"Apples ‘N’ Cinnamon:  
  
The Poetry Romantic"  
  
1906 C.E.**

Bruce was right. It did take Clark a few days to recover even with the benefit of the amazing healing cream. Bruce stayed at the Manor, using his computer and cellphone to stay in touch with Lucius Fox. He brought Clark all his meals in bed, insisting his slave lay on the couch in his study while he worked.

Clark was surprised. He had thought it would have been Alfred bringing him the tray with the sumptuous breakfasts, but it was Bruce who did so, fussing and making sure Clark was comfortable with plenty of pillows. 

What surprised Clark even more was Bruce taking his breakfast with him, setting up the plate, cup and utensils on a collapsible tray while he sat in a chair and they talked of small things as the sun streamed in through the windows, highlighting Bruce’s hair and winking off the silverware as he gestured to make a point. 

On the third day Clark was permitted to soak up the sun in the garden on a chaise lounge. As always, the sun agreed with him, his health improving every hour that he enjoyed the warmth.

By the sixth day, Alfred brought a mid-morning snack out to the table where Clark and Bruce were enjoying the sun. 

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said.

The kitchen radio was on and a snatch of news drifted out to their ears as the door slowly shut.

_“Majors Hal Jordan and Steve Trevor successfully tested the X-16 numerous times in the past several days, the U.S. Air Force announced._

_“In other news, our own local vigilante, the Batman, has been on a rampage the past week. Witnesses have reported a dark rage even deeper than usual…”_

“You’re welcome, sir. Clark, when you finish the chocolate chip cookies, will you please pick me a basket of apples?”

“Ah, I smell a pie in my future!”

“Quite so.”

“Be happy to.”

Bruce frowned. “Should you…?”

“I’m fine, Master. In fact, I’d like to resume our work-outs tomorrow if I could.”

Bruce reluctantly said, “All right.”

After the snack was finished, Clark rose from his chair. “I’ll get the ladder out.”

“I’ll do it.”

Clark watched in amusement as Bruce went to the garden shed and came out with the ladder. If an observer had not noticed Clark’s manacles he would have been hard-pressed to discern who was the Master and who was the slave. He took the basket that Alfred handed him.

It was a five-minute walk to the orchard, Clark enjoying the golden day. Leaves blew around in the wind, creating showers of color.

“It’s so beautiful,” Clark said, still awed every day by Nature’s beauty.

“We’re right at the peak of foliage time,” Bruce said.

Happiness flowed through Clark. He had been lucky to wind up here on this estate with Alfred and this Master. 

Bruce propped the ladder up against a gnarled but fruitful tree. “Hold it steady.” Clark obeyed, Bruce climbing up the ladder with the basket, efficiently picking apples.

Clark smiled. He was getting a wonderful view of Bruce’s luscious ass! Blushing, he allowed himself the indulgence of ogling. Surely a bedslave could do his duty better if he appreciated the Masterful goods.

Bruce leaned over, trying to grasp an apple just out of reach.

Alarmed, Clark called, “Careful, Master!”

Bruce steadied himself and touched the fruit with his fingertips. Concentrating hard, he strained his muscles, then grabbed the apple and plucked it off the branch with a cry of triumph. He clambered down the ladder, his face flushed with success.

Clark laughed. Such a simple thing could make his serious Master happy!

Bruce was a good Master. He kept him safe, cared for him, and did all the little things that showed his considerate nature. His guilt over the whipping touched Clark, because he knew that Bruce had had very little choice in that matter. 

_He broke his Code for me!_

As Bruce stood there offering him the apple with a joyous smile on his face, the wind ruffling his dark hair while golden leaves whirled around them in little wild arcs, it hit Clark.

Revelation.

He took the proffered fruit.

Joy.

He bit into the apple.

He didn’t just feel affection for his Master.

Sweet, delicious. juice.

He was _in love_ with his Master!  



	14. Love's First Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark enjoys the first wave of love’s joy.

_Love’s first bloom,  
Never senses  
Impending doom.  
It’s airy and light,  
Scented sweetly,  
Oh-so-discreetly._

  


**Janice Greenleaf Whittier  
"Nature’s Gold And Other Poems   
2007 C.E.**

Clark felt giddy the rest of the day, smiling and laughing as Bruce became more playful.

Love! It was a wonderful feeling. Everything looked brighter, tasted sweeter, and sounded like angel’s voices.

Clark knew he was being sappy and didn’t care. He rode the wave of love, determined to enjoy it even while he knew it was all impossible.

He had read about the admonitions against love between Master and slave. It was one thing for a Master to treat a slave with consideration and affection, and for a bedslave to appreciate such treatment and give pleasure with a genuine smile, but to fall in love…! 

He would think about that later. Right now he was in the first waves of love, and he was going to savor it.

Clark’s infectious mood was contagious, Bruce lighthearted for the rest of the day. 

The whole day was golden.

& & & & & &

Clark hummed as he cut the chrysanthemums, laying the red, yellow, and purple flowers in the basket on his arm. The smell of apple pie baking wafted from the kitchen.

He went into the kitchen and Alfred said, “Ah, lovely, Clark. There’s a vase in the cupboard over the canisters. Put them on the foyer table, will you?”

“Alfred, may I put them in the Master’s study instead?”

Alfred looked at him with mild surprise, then a smile curved his lips.

“Certainly, Clark. Master Bruce will be most appreciative.”

Bruce was working on his computer. He looked up at the click of ceramic-on-ceramic as Clark placed the vase on a trivet he put on the desk.

“Those are beautiful, Clark. Thank you.”

Clark’s sapphire-blue eyes sparkled. “You’re welcome.”

Bruce seemed amused by Clark’s buoyant attitude. “Would you be interested in a light work-out before dinner?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then we’ll do it as soon as I’m finished here.”

Clark nodded and sat on the couch, reading a book from the stack he kept on the pier table. He was voracious in his reading habits, grateful that he knew how to read. He had discovered that it was not common for slaves.

& & & & & &

Bruce was true to his word. He and Clark changed into work-out clothes and they worked on the mats, Clark always impressed by Bruce’s intensity. The man knew moves that Clark could only dream of. He eagerly learned all he could. Bruce rarely traveled with security, and Clark figured that if necessary, he could at least defend his Master. Reading the Code had taught him that slaves could hit a freeman if the Master was imperiled. The sense of protectiveness he received from Bruce was also what he felt toward the man bracing himself for his next move.

As Bruce feinted, Clark wasn’t fooled. Whether or not he was supposed to love his Master he didn’t know. All he did know was that he loved Bruce.

He grunted as Bruce slammed into him and they tumbled to the mat. He locked his legs around Bruce’s, trying to pin him. Bruce grinned and rolled them over, their faces close together. Clark’s eyes twinkled and he kissed Bruce.

Bruce looked surprised and for a moment Clark feared he had been too forward, but then Bruce laughed and grasped his shoulders, urging him into another kiss. 

Clark let all his love pour into his kiss, content to enjoy his new-found feelings and not worry about whether the man who owned him felt the same way.

“Mmm, sweet,” Bruce murmured as they broke apart. He brushed the curl back from Clark’s forehead. Their groins were tight together and Clark could feel their twin arousals. He gazed into midnight-blue eyes and was lost.

They kissed again, Bruce’s hands pulling up Clark’s T-shirt, then continuing up and over his head when they came up for air, mussing his hair and tilting his glasses. Clark reciprocated, then both men feverishly worked on their shorts until they were pressed together skin-to-skin.

“Mmm, tasty,” Bruce growled as he nibbled Clark’s neck. His hand slid up a strong thigh and caressed a hip, then slid over to cup Clark’s buttock, squeezing gently.

“I’m glad,” Clark murmured. He wanted to please his Master as part of his duty, but he had always wanted it to be more. It always had been so for him, and now the incentive was even greater.

_Love changes things._

Clark felt his happiness swell up from deep inside, his kisses tender as he brushed his lips against Bruce’s brow, slipping down to blow lightly in his ear. Bruce’s shiver pleased Clark. Whether slave or free, he knew how to please his Bruce.

Bruce’s hands stroked up and down Clark’s back, Clark’s tongue eagerly tasting Bruce’s throat. Bruce wrapped his legs around Clark’s thighs, one hand teasing a nipple. Clark’s moan brought more tweaking, and Clark buried his face in Bruce’s neck.

He nearly said, “I love you,” but caught himself. Love was impossible between Master and slave. 

Clark rubbed against Bruce, a pleasant friction tingling between their groins. Bruce’s hands returned to his buttocks, kneading and squeezing as they locked lips again, moaning and moving with lust.

The climax left Clark weak and happy. He curled up at Bruce’s side after he slid off him.

“Mmm,” Bruce murmured into Clark’s hair. “I’m glad you’re so recovered, Clark.”

“Me, too.”

Bruce chuckled and stroked Clark’s hair.

_“Always remember you are a slave. Never, **ever** be presumptuous.”_

Clark remembered the words of his trainer from not so long ago but ignored them.

At least for this one moment.


	15. Apple Cinnamon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark learns more about the Batman.

_An apple a day,  
Will bring your lover  
Out to play._

  


**Bettina Crocker  
"Food Magic"   
1986 C.E.**

Love had a way of mitigating the coldness of his manacles. Clark rarely even noticed the weight of those bracelets and his collar, lightweight as they were. They even made beautiful rainbow prisms in the sun. Sometimes he worried about why he so readily accepted his bondage, as if he was suppressing yearnings for freedom, but maybe all he needed to know was he was born a slave and couldn’t change it.

He had read that love was supposed to be blind. In his new experience, it was just the opposite. As if a veil was lifted, Clark was observing his Master with new eyes.

He saw the intensity underlying the considerate Master, but that in itself was not new, except that Clark became more aware of how controlled Bruce really was. He was charming and urbane but focused with a single-minded intensity on tasks.

Bruce’s consideration was always noticeable, and Clark was more aware of how gentle he was with Alfred and him. He was appreciative of any little gesture they made such as the flowers Clark had put on his desk in the study.

Love was supposed to cause one to overlook the beloved’s faults, but Clark preferred a clearer picture. While he daydreamed and hummed and was thoroughly besotted, he felt that he was viewing life at the Manor with more clarity.

Or maybe he was just happy.

& & & & & &

“Alfred?”

“Yes?”

Alfred was peeling apples while listening to the radio. His young Master and Clark were inordinately fond of his pies.

“Would you allow me the use of your kitchen?”

Amused, Alfred asked, “Why?”

“I’d like to cook a meal for Master Bruce tonight.”

“That’s a lovely idea.” Alfred smiled as Clark took out a peeler and picked up an apple. “What would you like to cook?” He had been teaching Clark to cook several dishes in addition to baking. Clark had a knack for it. Alfred wondered if it was all natural talent or if someone had taught him.

The butler wondered what it would be like to have no past, never sure of what skills you possessed? He had been part of this house since he was a young man. He knew the history of the Waynes better than he knew his own family’s.

_“Green Arrow and Black Canary were honored today in Star City for their instrumental involvement for bringing down the Ruiz drug cartel.”_

“Well, Bruce likes roast beef, right?” Alfred nodded. “Carrots, potatoes, maybe some apple pie for dessert?”

Alfred chuckled. “Yes, apple pie for dessert.” When Clark’s stomach wasn’t queasy due to his quinium injections, his appetite could be prodigious. “Have you determined that he will be home this evening?”

“Yes.” Clark’s sure fingers were peeling the apple with precision. He frowned. “Until he disappears.” He sliced the peeled apple into fat, juicy pieces and dropped them in the ceramic bowl. “Why does he work so late, Alfred? Sometimes he doesn’t come to bed until dawn!”

Alfred started on a new apple. “He is what I believe you Americans call a ‘night owl’.” He deftly peeled the fruit. “He…does not like to sleep many hours.”

Clark finished his apple and picked up a new one. “Is it because of his parents?” he asked softly.

The kitchen was quiet as the sounds of paring continued, the radio with dead air, then classical music began to play.

“Yes.”

Quiet again, mixed with music, then Clark said, “I’m sorry.”

“Everyone who knows Master Bruce to any degree beyond the superficial knows how that night affected him. He…is a driven man, Clark. His childhood ended that night.” Alfred finished with the apples and took out a new bowl. Clark dipped out the flour from the canister into the bowl.

They worked in tandem, adding flour and water together in the bowl, then dumping it out onto a board taken out by Clark. Clark kneaded the dough, Alfred watching as he brought out a pie plate.

They were large hands, a few calluses evident from the outdoor work he loved to do, otherwise smooth and well-manicured. Clark loved to revel in his senses, whether digging his hands into the earth of the garden or inhaling the scent of his favorite yellow roses.

Perhaps being such a sensualist helps him with his primary role in the bedchamber. 

Alfred was pleased that Bruce had acquired a bedslave. With the pressures under which he functioned, an outlet such as the beautiful man helping him bake pies was an excellent one.

_You lighten Master Bruce’s burden, Clark._

Clark hummed along to the music on the radio and Alfred said, “You seem quite happy.”

“I am, aren’t I?” The thought of being happy seemed to make Clark even happier.

Alfred chuckled, using the rolling pin to flatten out the pie crust while Clark washed his hands and the bowls. He sprinkled cinnamon into the mix. 

The music ended and the announcer’s voice said, _“The lead story this hour is the Batman’s dismantling of a crime ring here in Gotham specializing in ancient Egyptian artifacts. The timing is fortunate as an exhibit of another set of Egyptian antiquities is scheduled to visit the Gotham Art Museum six weeks from now…”_

“Alfred…?”

“Yes?” Alfred was putting the finishing touches on the pie by folding in the apple slices and tamping the crust over them.

“The Batman is such a shadowy figure. What do you know about him?”

Alfred placed the pie in the oven, shut the door, turned it on and set the timer. He could have used the microwave but preferred the old-fashioned method for certain projects. The antique stove was still in working condition.

The butler gestured that they clean up, then put a kettle of Earl Grey on to boil. Clark waited patiently through all this for an answer to his question, following Alfred’s lead in sitting at the kitchen table.

“He is a vigilante in the strictest sense, I suppose, as he has no Government authority for his crimefighting, but he’s a positive, in my opinion. He helps the frequently-beleaguered Gotham Police Department in their quest to keep order.

“The Batman is said to strike fear in the hearts of criminals, a most superstitious and cowardly lot.”

“How long has he patrolled Gotham?”

“Only a few years.” Alfred rose to tend the whistling kettle.

“Did he precede the other heroes?” 

“No, he was the first.” Alfred poured tea into handpainted teacups and placed them in saucers on the table. “The others began to make appearances soon after, such as Green Arrow and Black Canary in Star City, for example.”

“Hmm. I wonder what drives him?”

Sometimes it was easy to overlook Clark’s intelligence. Because of his illness, he frequently suffered from periods of confusion, especially right before and after his weekly quinium shot, and his amnesia made him ignorant of many things he should know.

“He probably has a strong sense of justice,” Alfred said.

“He must, to go to the darkest parts of town and meet criminals on their own turf.” Clark sipped his tea. “I find him dark and mysterious, but admirable.”

Alfred drank his own tea.” Motivations are varied, but it’s what drives us all.” Alfred set the cup down, clinking the saucer. “Even the Batman.”

Clark nodded, drifting into thought.

The smell of apples and cinnamon was warm and always pleased Alfred. The Manor was home to him after all these years. Sometimes he could barely remember his life before his arrival here.

“Well, we should check to see if we have the necessary ingredients for your dinner tonight.”

& & & & & &

Clark set the table in the dining room. He thought about the dark figure who served as Gotham’s guardian. Interesting that he had chosen a bat as a disguise.

_I’d love to meet him someday._

He finished setting the table and called out, “Alfred, I’m going upstairs to shower and change.” His Master would be home soon.

& & & & & &

Bruce walked in, the delicious smells of roast beef, carrots and potatoes wafting out to greet him.

“Alfred!” he called, depositing his briefcase on the hall table. “Dinner smells great!”

Alfred emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “It’s not my cooking, sir. Merely my assistance.”

“What, did you order a catered meal?”

“No.” Alfred smiled as Clark appeared. “Here is your chef, sir.”

Surprise, then delight lit up Bruce’s face. “Well, I look forward to sampling your culinary delights, Clark.” 

And more after the meal.

He could see that Clark could divine his thoughts, his slave blushing slightly but smiling. 

“I’ll be down shortly.”

& & & & & &

Bruce savored the tender beef, truly impressed by the meal Clark had prepared.

His gentle and loyal slave had been… _glowing_ …for the past few days. He looked more beautiful than ever.

“Alfred considers you a prize student.” Bruce ate a savory carrot. “Very talented.” The art of cooking mystified him.

Clark smiled. His eagerness to please was a good quality in a bedslave but was also endearing.

“Yes, very talented,” Bruce murmured.

When the entrée was finished, Alfred brought in two slices of apple cinnamon pie with coops of French vanilla ice cream.

“So, how are your secretarial skills?” Bruce asked.

“What?”

“I’d like you to accompany me to a meeting tomorrow and take notes for me.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll be meeting Majors Hal Jordan and Steve Trevor.” He laughed at the eager look in Clark’s eyes. Just like a little boy at Christmas.

“Mmm, and you made the pie, didn’t you?” Clark’s proud smile made Bruce laugh affectionately. “It’s delicious.” He winked. “Just like you.”

Yes, definitely glowing.

& & & & & &

The moonlight limned Clark’s body, his manacles and collar sparkling with iridescent color. Here in the black-draped bedroom, Clark was a shining star.

“My Starchild,” Bruce murmured.

Bruce clutched Clark’s shoulders, bestowing butterfly kisses on his face. “Mmm,” Bruce purred, the smoothness of Clark’s skin a delight to the touch. Bruce’s tongue slipped into Clark’s mouth, his warm hands caressing his slave’s chest. Clark moved beneath him, their bodies in sync as Bruce whispered, “Turn over.”

Clark smiled and obeyed, sighing as Bruce prepared him, anticipating the sweet thrust of passion. More butterfly kisses on his shoulders, down his spine, around curved buttocks, until…

Clark moaned as Bruce entered him, pleasure flooding his body. Electricity tingled along his limbs, his fingers clutching the sheets.

Love flooded him along with Bruce’s seed, happiness threatening to crush him with its intensity.

Bruce gathered him into his arms, Clark falling asleep, a smile curving his lips as his mind imagined it saw the Batsignal shining through the undraped window.


	16. Balance In All Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce, Ollie and Lex learn that the Empire is continuing to build up its arsenal while dealing with myriad threats to the Order of Things.

_"Balance is order. Order is balance."_

  


**Parell Mexlor  
Rigellian Philosopher   
10,993 B.C.E.-10,923 B.C.E.**

Bruce arrived outside the meeting room. He immediately spotted Ollie and the blond man shook his hand.

“Welcome back to Gotham.”

Ollie smiled. “Glad to be here.”

“Clark, would you see my secretary about the refreshments?” Bruce asked. Clark nodded and headed for Delilah’s office.

Ollie said, “By the way, Melody is a treasure.”

“Melody?”

“Yes, the Caldwell slave.”

“Ah!” Bruce’s eyes lit up. “I didn’t know her name.”

“I did exactly as you suggested,” Ollie said as they moved a short distance away from the others beginning to gather outside the room. “I asked my cousin Leila to front for me as she knows Adelaide Caldwell, Edmund’s wife, and mother of Evangeline, Leila’s friend. That way Edmund wouldn’t know that I was interested, and make the guess that you had instigated things.

“As luck would have it, the little girl was the tea server. Leila immediately declared she was charmed and made an offer on the spot. Adelaide’s no sadist like her husband, but she has no attachments to slaves, either. She agreed and Leila wrote out a check, had Melody pack her things, and brought her directly to me. I reimbursed Leila and asked her to keep this to herself. She despises Edmund, had seen the bruises on Melody, and was glad to do it.

“Dinah adores her. She’s our personal Squire and is a doll.”

“Thank you, Ollie,” Bruce said fervently. “I’ll have to tell Clark.”

“Yes, considering he paid for her literally in flesh and blood.” Sympathy shone in green eyes. “How is he?”

“Recovered.”

“Does he understand…?”

“He won’t do it again.”

Ollie looked at him speculatively. “The six-hour wait must have been brutal.”

Bruce looked away. “It wasn’t easy.”

“Yes, all six hours must have been painful.”

Bruce looked back, answering steadily, “It was.”

Ollie’s eyes softened, but he said nothing more.

Clark returned and assured Bruce that refreshments were on the way. 

“Good.”

Ollie said, “Let me introduce you to our star astronauts.” They went into the meeting room and he caught Hal’s attention. Hal and Steve came over. “Bruce, this is my old buddy, Hal Jordan, and a man rapidly approaching old and trusted friend, Steve Trevor.”

Bruce shook hands with the two Air Force majors, taking stock of them. Hal was a brunette with green eyes, his smile easy and his manner comfortable. However, Bruce sensed a strong will behind the affable smile.

Steve was blond, blue-eyed and what was classically thought of as ‘matinee-idol’-handsome, an archaic term that fit him. His smile was more on the dazzling side, yet he was as confident as Hal. Bruce liked both of them immediately.

“Gentlemen, let’s get started,” General Elias Stark said.

Everyone took their seats except for Bruce. He saw Harvey, Dax, and Lex among the attendees and nodded to them.

“Gentlemen, I wish to request that my slave be allowed to attend but seated,” Bruce said.

Stark harrumphed. “This is business, not a social gathering, Mr. Wayne.”

“I know that, sir, but I would like him to take notes and that would be difficult to do so kneeling at my feet. A vote?”

Grudgingly Stark said, “Highly irregular, but all right.” He turned to the attendees. “All in favor of allowing Mr. Wayne’s slave to be seated instead of kneeling, say aye.” 

Several hands raised. Bruce was surprised to see Harvey and Dax’s hands up. He also noted Ollie, Lex, Steve, and Hal’s hands up along with three others.

“All opposed.” Stark and his two aides raised their hands up along with two other men.

“Ayes have it.” Stark’s craggy face registered disappointment.

“Good.” 

Bruce went to the door. If the vote had been negative, he would have left Clark outside and taken the notes himself. Coming up with this little plan had allowed him to circumvent the Code about slaves and their positions at business meetings. He knew that proposing a vote would work, as freemen always liked the idea of having a decision in a slave’s fate. 

Bruce ushered Clark in and directed him to sit in the corner chair, glad of those dark glasses. He noticed avaricious glances from some of the men. General Stark’s pale blue eyes glittered. 

Bruce walked back to the table and sat down between Harvey and Ollie.

The meeting commenced.

& & & & & &

Clark glided the stylus over the electronic clipboard. Studies had shown the small, handheld Blackberrys and other gadgets caused hand problems because of the size. Bigger instruments were better suited for writing purposes.

Clark was grateful that he knew how to write. He could be helpful to Bruce.

He stole covert glances at Hal and Steve. They were right out of the tradition of the 20th Century test pilots and astronauts. Clark was fascinated by pilots. The idea of flying excited him. He often gazed up at the sky, wondering what it would be like up there.

He shook his head. He was drifting off again. Damn his disease. Confusion was part of the deal and despite the quinium treatments, he had to expect such loss of focus. With effort, he concentrated on the meeting.

& & & & & &

“Gentlemen, we’re meeting to discuss new contracts in the military/industrial complex. As you all have high security clearance, we’ll get right to it.” Stark shuffled some papers. “We are looking for mass production of new designs that Majors Jordan and Trevor have been testing. The numbers are on the sheets my aides are distributing now.” Stark waited for everyone to have the papers, then continued, “Our build-up is part of a program currently being implemented by the Galactic Empire.”

“Will we be manufacturing ships for other planets?” Lex asked.

Stark looked at Dax. “Sire Mantell?”

Dax nodded. “Gentlemen, all planets of the Empire will be given different contracts. Most of the manufacturing here on Earth, for example, will be for your own military. However, additional contracts will cover weaponry for the Empire forces. In other words, each planet will take care of their home security but will also contribute to the mutual Empire forces. Earth will supply fighter ships, Rigel will provide dreadnoughts, Orion, shuttles, and so on.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

“General,” Lex asked. “Are we planning for war?”

A hush fell over the room.

 _Leave it to Lex to be direct_ , Bruce thought in amusement. He noticed the same emotion in Ollie. _All three of us go way back._

“Mr. Luthor, we are in what was once known as a Cold War. We must remain vigilant.” Stark’s expression was grave. “Major Trevor.”

Steve stood up. “One of our outposts on the Rim was attacked last week.”

A buzz went around the room. Lex leaned forward. “The Collective?”

“Unknown.” Steve’s voice was level but Bruce sensed the tension in him. “It could have been Collective work, or a rogue band. The outpost on Cestus 3 mined several kinds of minerals and ore. It was a small operation as we did not want to call attention to it.”

“What minerals?” Ollie asked.

“Irridium that fuels our ships; mexanite, berillium, malachite...” Steve finished the list, Bruce noting Stark’s grim expression. He continued, “There will always be skirmishes and incidents, gentlemen. Things may heat up next week or five years from now. Whatever the case, we need to start our build-up now.”

Stark nodded. “Thank you, Major.”

As Steve sat down, Ollie spoke up. “What are we doing about the attack? Are we trying a diplomatic initiative to see if we can find out anything?”

Stark looked like he wanted to chew glass at the thought of diplomacy. “Ms. Iris West is Earth Ambassador and has been appointed as a Special Envoy to the Collective.” 

“She’s got guts,” murmured Lex, and the rest agreed. 

Bruce thought of the dangers of dealing with the shadowy race. So little was known about them. Were they humanoid, were they all one race or a collection of races, such as the Empire and the old Confederation? Anyone dealing with them was at a disadvantage, not to mention the rumor that envoys did not always make it back.

“So we do have a diplomatic initiative started then,” said Bruce.

“Yes, but we can’t rely on that. We’ve had skirmishes with the Collective before.” Stark’s face grew even grimmer. “What was left…I won’t go into details.” 

Bruce thought that was for the best.

Lex spoke up. “General, what about the rumor that there is a shortage of slave soldiers?”

Stark sipped a glass of water. “There have been some problems.”

“What?”

“We’re investigating. For some reason the brood slaves are becoming sterile on certain farms. The stud slaves, too.”

A ripple of uneasiness went around the room. “You said ‘certain farms’, General. Does that mean those that supply the military and not the civilian market?”

“As I said, we’re investigating.”

Bruce knew sidestepping the question when he heard it. He and Ollie exchanged glances.

The rest of the meeting concerned production quotas and schedules. As it drew to a close, one of the Gotham businessmen remarked, “Maybe we should try and clone the Batman. Can you imagine the soldiers we could get from his genes?”

“Bah, the Batman,” sneered Stark. “Vigilantes like him shake the foundations of order. I’d say it was lucky that cloning doesn’t work. Too unstable.”

“True,” Harvey agreed. His fingers were flipping a pencil around and over. “Order is essential for our prosperity.”

“Doesn’t this Batman fight the petty crime humanity is riddled with?” Dax asked with a superior smile.

“Oh, he does. And supervillains, too,” Ollie said cheerfully.

“Like Green Arrow and Black Canary in Star City?” Lex asked.

“Yeah, like that. Lex, your city doesn’t have a resident superhero.”

“True. And we’re a major metropolitan city. We should have our own hero,” Lex said in amusement.

“Too bad we can’t use the Kryptonians,” another man suggested.

“The Kryptonians!” Stark was outraged. “With any luck, we’ll have eradicated them in a very short time.”

“How many are left?” Lex asked.

“Too many,” Stark snorted.

“What soldiers they’d make!” said the first man.

“Yes, they’d be great soldiers, but you can’t control them. Gentlemen,” the general leaned forward, “They possess the strength to rip an asteroid in two. They possess superspeed, vision, hearing. They’re invulnerable.” Stark’s pale blue eyes grew even frostier. “They could easily conquer any planet in the Empire with just a handful of their countrymen.”

“Why haven’t they done so?” asked Lex.

“Fortunately for us, their home planet exploded. They were already scattered across the galaxy and had no strength in numbers. Again, luckily for us, their love of independence and freedom keeps them from banding together.” Stark smiled. “And our hunting them down.” 

“They hate slavery,” Harvey growled.

Stark nodded. “They would work to abolish the institution, by force if necessary.”

Harvey’s face darkened. “It would bring down the Empire.”

“How so?” asked Steve.

Harvey looked at the blond incredulously. “My dear Major, our civilization is built on slavery. Every planet in the Empire practices it.” Dax nodded beside him. “Without it, we would have chaos.” Harvey’s eyes glowed with the passion of a True Believer. “Order is imperative! Everyone knows their place. Balance in all things.”

Bruce shifted in his seat. He was never comfortable with Harvey’s show of passion. It seemed…unbalanced…at times.

“But they only get their powers under a yellow sun,” Steve observed.

“Correct,” Stark agreed.

“So we simply keep them off yellow sun worlds,” said Lex.

“We try, but they’ve slipped away before and give us trouble. More than one Kryptonian have led slave rebellions.”

“Why haven’t we heard about these rebellions?” Bruce asked with a frown.

“Because, Mr. Wayne, the Empire wishes to prevent these radicals from gaining adherents. They led rebellions in remote outposts. Subduing them proved costly.”

“Still, it would seem more useful to control them instead of simply annihilating them,” Lex said.

Stark snorted. “Believe me, Mr. Luthor, there are factions within our very Government who are researching that line of thinking. In my opinion, we would be fortunate if there were none left to control.” Stark’s voice was stentorian. “These Kryptonians love freedom over life itself, and their powers would be as gods. Highly useful weapons, but the methods to keep them docile and obedient would probably negate their power.”

“I thought that Green Kryptonite killed Kryptonians,” Hal said. “That wouldn’t be very practical for controlling purposes.”

“Green K isn’t the only type out there.”

Bruce was surprised. There were more kinds of Kryptonite? He filed way that fact. You never know when you might need anything you learned.

The meeting concluded and Stark said, “I’d like to meet again in two weeks.”

Bruce stood. “I’d like to offer this room again here at Wayne Enterprises and invite you all back to Gotham.” His dark-blue eyes twinkled. “Gotham at Halloween is an … _interesting_ …experience.” Laughter rippled around the room. “General?”

“Gotham it is, then.”

“Excellent.”

The meeting broke up into little groups, Ollie chatting with Bruce.

“I’m sorry that I have to run off again on you, Bruce. Let me make it up to you. We’ll have lunch when I return in two weeks. And to sweeten the pot, I’ll bring along glamour boys Jordan and Trevor.”

Bruce glanced over at Clark, whose eager expression amused him. “That sounds great, Ollie. I’d like to invite you to stay at the Manor while you’re in town. You, too, Lex.”

Lex had come up to their group and looked pleased. “Thanks, Bruce. Old friends should stick together.” Interest lit his eyes. “I never saw your Prize up close.”

Bruce lifted his hand and Clark immediately came to his side, eyes downcast behind the dark glasses.

Lex looked with appreciation. “Beautiful,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” Bruce said with pride.

“Well, our train leaves in an hour. Care for a seatmate?” Lex asked Ollie.

“Thanks, Lex. Let’s go for it. Bruce, see you in two.”

Bruce shook their hands. As the men departed, Clark said, “Is Mr. Queen planning to stay over with Mr. Luthor?”

“No, but Star City’s on the route of the train. Wonderful things, monorail trains. They’re so fast and comfortable, and even though hovercars are a great way to travel, I guess I’m just an old-fashioned guy.”

Clark laughed. “I can see that. You’ve updated the Manor technologically but the house itself is so rich in history.”

Bruce looked at Clark in appreciation. “You understand,” he said softly as he took Clark’s hand.

Clark squeezed his hand. “I try.” His lips curved into a smile, and Bruce knew that if the glasses were removed, Clark’s eyes would be sparkling.

Bruce squeezed back. “Let’s go to lunch.”


	17. Serendipity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark makes a startling discovery.

_On a silver night,  
The Starchild bright,  
Followed the light,  
To the Dark Knight._

  


**The Freedom Chronicles  
2363 C.E.**

Alfred was surprised and delighted to learn of future houseguests.

“This will work out perfectly, sir. I have a crew coming in next week for a thorough top-to-bottom fall cleaning.”

“Excellent as always, Alfred.”

The next few days were still a whirlwind of extra cleaning. Clark was happy to keep busy, still in the first glow of love. When he was finished with his chores, he pored over _A Guideline For Slaves (The Code)_ and learned that love was forbidden between Master and slave, as he had suspected, but he also knew that no official code would acknowledge such a thing. He had no doubt that there were Masters and slaves out there who had fallen in love but had never publicly acknowledged it.

What was most worrisome was the loss of respect and status for any Master considered foolish enough to fall in love with a slave. 

_If my Master ever did feel the same way as me, he could never let anyone but Alfred know it. He would have to live a secret life._

Discouraged, Clark read over other sections of the Code contained in the book. He knew that he had committed a cardinal sin by touching a freeman without permission, but his jaw set. He would do it again if there was no help for it even while he would try and follow Bruce’s orders. 

He winced and touched his temple. Whenever he had any kind of rebellious thought, he could feel the beginnings of a headache blossom in his skull.

 _Must be subconscious punishment_ , he thought with a sigh.

& & & & & &

Clark awoke, disappointed that once more he was alone. Moonlight streamed in through a crack in the curtains. He shivered and wondered if he should light a fire in the fireplace. As per Bruce’s standing order, he slept in the nude, ready and waiting for his Master, but it was getting cold at night at this time of year.

He decided against it. Making a fire would create noise. His curiosity was getting the better of him, and he didn’t want Bruce or Alfred to know that he was awake.

Every night since he had arrived, with few exceptions, Bruce had sent Clark up to bed while he remained downstairs working. Clark had been fine with that as he was usually tired at the end of the day, no doubt a side effect of his illness. Sleeping gave him the energy to please his Master when Bruce came to him deep into the night.

Clark slipped out of bed, shrugging into a cobalt-blue robe and slippers, tying the robe’s belt firmly. With a deep breath, he quietly left the bedroom and padded downstairs.

He was disobeying by leaving the bedroom and coming downstairs and he would be punished if he was caught, but he was not worried. He was more than certain that sixty lashes would not be involved! In fact, Bruce would probably just chain him to the bed, a possibility that excited more than distressed him. Stifling a laugh, he crept along the carpeted hallway, careful to avoid the creaky spots in the hardwood of the ancient mansion.

The silence was broken only by the ticking of the 600-year-old grandfather clock in the library. Clark frowned. Shouldn’t he be hearing the murmur of Bruce’s voice on the phone, the tapping of computer keys or the rustle of papers?

Heart pounding, he cautiously peeked into the study.

Empty.

He walked in. The computer wasn’t even turned on.

A check of the library, dining room, kitchen, breakfast nook and even the Grand Ballroom revealed no Bruce.

Puzzled, Clark returned to the library, wondering if his Master had gone out for the evening. Drawn to the books as always, he read some titles while trying to figure out the mystery. 

A sudden wave of dizziness hit him and he reached out a hand to steady himself, falling heavily against the clock, jangling the pendulum. The glass door flew open and he noticed the back of the case was ajar. He pulled it open, astonished to see a secret passageway revealed.

Clark stared. His mind raced about old houses and secret passageways from Revolutionary and Civil War days, Underground Railroad stops, a thousand-and-one reasons there should be a concealed passageway in the back of the old clock. Yes, that was it. Old historical reasons. No other reason, right?

Trembling, Clark made a decision.

As if compelled, he started down the steps of the passageway.

It was drafty as he carefully walked down the stone steps. His hand reached out for balance on the damp stone wall.

He strained to hear anything. As he descended, the stairs twisting into a spiral, he gradually heard faint noises. He couldn’t identify them.

He reached the bottom of the steps and walked out…

…into a cave.

Not just any cave. Large and spacious, it was filled with wonders.

A dinosaur.

A giant penny.

A huge bank of computers with a large viewscreen.

A set of laboratory equipment.

A dark, sleek plane with a distinctive winged shape.

An area marred with scattered tools and irridium fuel canisters, ready for vehicle maintenance.

He looked up as the sound he had heard before became louder, a rustling of hundreds of wings as a covey of bats flew down from the high reaches of the cave and out through the dark hole that opened out into a tunnel.

Bats.

His Master… 

…the man he loved…

…was the Batman!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **End of[Arc The First (Sanctuary)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/361058/chapters/585627)**
> 
> **Next:[Arc The Second (Shadow Of The Bat)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/362160/chapters/587658)**


End file.
